


Magic to make a stone run

by Sand_Cursive



Series: Mountains made soft [2]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/Sand_Cursive
Summary: Continuation of: And he comes over the Mountain. But with Asra.





	1. Noontime Tea

“He needs to go.”

You’re sitting on the veranda of the palace with Nadia and Asra beside you. Tea is cooling rapidly on the round glass table between you, fragrant steam coiling in the evening air.

Muriel is electing to stand, leaning against the railing stiffly and looking large and ominous. At least he’s lowered his hood.

You’d nearly had to beg, on hands and knees, to get him to agree to come along with you back to the palace. In the end, what it mainly came down to was your reluctance to travel back through the forest on your own (although it certainly helped that he wanted the goat gone just as much as anyone else). You’d wanted to pick Asra up on your way, and had stopped at the shop, but he hadn’t been there. Muriel had waited by the back when you walked in, checking to see if he’d left a note. You’d invited him in, of course, but he’d declined no matter how ardent your assurances that he would fit in the shop just fine.

There hadn’t been a note, which meant he wouldn’t be gone long. So you’d locked up the shop, meandered briefly to the market for bread and then headed straight for the palace. Where Nadia was already entertaining the magician.

“Asra!” you’d called, instantly delighted, and you’d thrown yourself forwards for an enthusiastic embrace. He returned it warmly, casting an amused glance at Muriel over your shoulder.

“What a coincidence,” he’d said, in a tone of voice that clearly said it was anything but.

“A coincidence indeed,” you said, handing him a loaf of pumpkin bread. You’d opted for blueberry, and Muriel had olive, but you simply hadn’t been able to leave it behind. Then you walked up to Nadia, who’d been watching the proceedings with a wry brow.

You handed her a delicately wrapped pouch.

“And what’s this?” she’d asked, taking it delicately.

“It would be remiss of me to bring a gift for the guest and nothing for the host,” you’d said, dropping into a perfectly executed if sardonic curtsy. She rewarded you with the barest twitch of her lips before she undid the knot.

“Hibiscus and cherry scones!” she’d exclaimed, looking delighted. “These smell heavenly. I think some tea is in order. I’ll have Portia prepare some right away.”

She turned to walk sedately up the hallway and you strode to keep up with her, giving Asra and Muriel a chance to catch up behind you. Portia, when the two of you had tracked her down, had already had a service set up for the four of you. She laughed when you gave her an admiring look, and a “Portia, are you sure you aren’t secretly a magician?” while Nadia looked on, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “You _do_ seem to have an uncanny foresight.”

She’s only winked and said, “I haven’t always worked in the palace, your grace.” And you were only mostly sure she was teasing.

You and Nadia had already been seated when Asra and Muriel finally arrived, walking in silence. Asra sat in the chair beside you while Muriel had marched immediately off to the side, ignoring the large mismatched chair that had clearly been brought out for him.

You’d meant to start with the current problem, but the tea and the scones and the company had been so good that it had been difficult to interrupt with so unsavory a topic. Muriel remained quiet and stoic through it all, not even glancing at the teacup that had already gone cold.

Finally you’d sighed, looking out at the verdant grounds and wondering if he had come back to haunt them.

“Well,” Nadia says in response, breaking you out of your melancholy. “Can anything be done?”

Asra takes another sip of tea and considers. “Yes. Although very few methods can be done by us.”

“And the ones that can?”

He levels her a look over the rim of his cup. “Unbelievably dangerous.”

You rest one elbow on the table, hopelessly uncouth, and settle your chin in your palm. “Things can’t continue like this,” you say redundantly. “I’ m tired of his tantrums.”

“He does seem to be focused particularly on you,” Nadia muses thoughtfully. Her tone would be lazy if her gaze weren’t so sharp. “What did you do to him?”

You sigh. “Nothing. At least, nothing that I can remember.”

She makes a comforting noise in her throat. “I can certainly sympathize with that. Although it doesn’t give us very much to go on.”

“Well, we do know that Lucio is targeting _you_ ,” Asra says, looking serious. “But has he actually _done_ anything other than make a nuisance of himself?”

You stiffen immediately in your seat, gaze sliding over to Muriel. He’s still standing, stoic, arms crossed tight over his chest. He looks as stiff as you feel.

“Not,” you start, your voice wavering. You clear your throat and try again. “Not really. Not until . . . recently.”

Asra leans in towards you, telegraphing concern and something . . . else. Something you’ve never seen in his aura before. It coils outwards, thick and oily, pulsing. Dangerous. “What did he do?”

You reach out and clasp his hand on the table. “I’m okay, Asra. Muriel got me before anything really bad happened.” A long, hard exhale and you startle, looking over. Muriel is positively _glowering_.

“Something really bad DID happen.”

“Muriel . . .” you start, but he won’t meet your gaze.

Asra turns to him, clearly deciding that for the moment, Muriel is the more trustworthy. Traitor.

“What happened?”

“I’m fine!” you burst out, but no one’s listening to you. You jerk your pant leg up and shake the fabric viciously. “Look, it’s all there—”

You swallow. Now that you have their attention it feels like a mistake. Asra reaches a hand out, hovering just over your skin. _Tasting_. You know the astringent heat of your unfaded magic is feeding into him like a shot. His expression grows narrow and stony and he turns back to Muriel. Waiting.

He’s too agitated to mind having the full force of everyone’s attention. “He laid an ambush in the forest. And there was . . . damage.” He waves a hand at you, and if a gesture can be both dismissive and admiring Muriel has mastered it. “That leg is practically brand new.”

Asra back turns to you, and there is something wondering and confounded in his gaze. “You built a leg? A _real_ , organic leg. With magic?”

You shy away from his gaze. “I didn’t! Muriel’s making it seem worse than it is, there was still plenty to work with. The bones were intact, and most of the muscle. It was the skin, really, that I patched up.”

“That’s not how it looked,” Muriel says quietly, shaking his head. “When you woke up.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to him again, focused like an arrow to a target. This time he shuffles, dropping his gaze.

“Muriel,” you whisper softly, uncomprehending, “What do you mean?”

“When . . . when I brought you back,” he says carefully. “Your leg. There wasn’t much left. But you’re right about the bone being fine.” He swallows. “I did what I could but. I didn’t think there’d be anything left for you to save when you woke up.”

Your heart beats, aching in your chest. He’s grimacing down at the ground, fists curled tight and straight at his sides. He looks so _distressed_. You’re on your feet before you realize, walking over to take his hand. Your fingers are small against his fist. He starts but doesn’t pull away.

“Muriel,” you say, soft and low. “That’s impossible. Even magic has its limits.”

He frowns down at you. “Not yours.”

“Well,” you say, not willing to point out his mistake when he’s so obviously upset. “Thank you. Again. For all your help, and for taking care of me.”

He holds your gaze for a moment, searching. “You’re welcome.”

You smile. And tug his hand towards the table, and the chair he’d been ignoring. “Now sit and have some scones.”

“I’ll have Portia bring out some more tea,” Nadia says graciously. “Yours must be frigid by now.”

He lets you pull him along, but when you get to the table he stands for a moment, staring at the chair set between you and Asra. He doesn’t make any move to settle into it.

“Do you . . . do you not want to sit?”

He shakes his head gruffly. “No, it’s fine.”

He stands for another moment, glaring down at the seat, before he finally bends to sit in it. When he pulls the chair in, he’s almost pressed against you. You cast him a look under your lashes but he doesn’t meet it. It almost makes you miss Asra’s surprised look, which he covers smoothly by reaching for his cup and taking a long sip. Muriel doesn’t look at him, either.

You place one small hand on the thick forearm he’s rested on the table. He starts, staring down at it, before you give him an easy smile. His eyes dart; from you, to Nadia (still whispering into Portia’s bent ear), to Asra still taking his slow sip. He stiffens, and jerks his arm away from you, drawing into his lap.

You don’t know how to react, to that. You grab a warm scone, wet with butter, just so you’ll have something to do. The flavour is decadent on your tongue and you struggle to swallow it.

“So,” Nadia says, ignoring the sudden awkwardness descending on her tea service. “What can we do?”

“I would need to do a little more research before we come up with anything more concrete,” Asra sighs, leaning back against the wrought iron of the palace chair. His cup is empty on the saucer before him.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning to him. He gives you a deceptively casual shrug. “If you could take a look in Nadia’s library, there might be something there. Focus on banishments and summonings for now.”

“Summoning?”

Asra nods. “Yes. I think it’s about time we had a little . . . _conversation_.”

* * *

 

Light slants golden bright and thick as honey through the tall arched windows in the hall. You wander idly, your steps light and almost dancing. Even the strange tension of this afternoon can’t diminish the majesty couched resplendently in these stone walls. You reach up with one hand to finger the golden tasseled draws on the red velvet curtains when you see a head of downy white hair coming around the corner just ahead.

“Asra!”

He turns when he hears you calling, his smile soft and enigmatic. The expression only bolsters your unease from earlier. You glance around (a little unnecessarily, since Muriel excused himself a good twenty minutes ago, all but fleeing from Nadia’s well-stocked table), and lower your voice. Asra obligingly leans in to catch your words.

“Are you and Muriel fighting?”

He squints his eyes, still smiling, serene, but you know him. There’s a flash of surprise that flares bright and brief before he wipes it away, leaning back with a casual grace. “Why would you think that?” The words are, more often than not, tacit admission.

You sigh and slump against him, your forehead immediately finding that familiar groove in his shoulder. “Will you tell me what you’re fighting about?”

“No,” he says brightly, rubbing a soothing circle into your shoulder. “It’s a little too personal for that, I fear.”

You push yourself up just enough to get your arms around him in a hug. You can feel him huff a laugh against the nape of your neck, and you squeeze him affectionately, just once. “You can tell me anything. Or, no, wait, you don’t have to. Of course.” He laughs again, and you respond in kind. “I mean I’m always there for you. No matter what.”

You draw away, and he gives you a mischievously appraising look. “Any time I need you?”

“Even when you don’t.”

His smile has slipped into sincere, happy, and you feel a sudden weight lifted off your shoulders. You still take one of his hands with your own. “Will you two be alright?”

He takes a moment (just), to consider, before he gives your hand a warm squeeze of his own. “I think so. I think we just need to clear the air between us.”

You whistle, low. “Talking, huh?”

“Oh, you’ve noticed?”

You shake your head. “Well, I know he’ll at least listen to you.”

“Already had your first fight?” he asks knowingly.

You attempt a playful swat that only results in getting you poked in the cheek. You rub at the skin, pouting. “What does _that_ mean?”

He only shakes his head. “Your first lover’s quarrel,” he says, miming wiping away a tear. “Gosh, they grow up so fast.”

You move to shove him with your free hand but he catches it with his own, twining your fingers together. “Good effort,” he says, eyes shining. His firm grip betrays his words, and you match his grin with one of your own. “It appears I still have much to learn, master.”

Something strange twists in his face, but you this time you can’t track it. He cover is with an easy laugh and too late, you realize you’re already laughing with him.

* * *

 

You’re surprised when you leave the palace, scarves draped over your shoulders against the evening chill. You thought he’d have gone on ahead, but there, in the shadow of the garden’s walls, is a dark, hulking form. The quiet tickle of guilt moves steadily through you — you’d have hurried if you’d known he was going to wait.

Your steps pick up as you near him, a scarf already hanging in your hands. “Are you cold?” But you don’t wait for the answer.

“I’m okay,” he says, a little surprised. He tries to hand you back the scarf and you only drape it back around him, keeping the ends wound in your fists so you can pull him down for a kiss. It’s chaste, and brief, and he is enticingly disappointed when you pull away.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” you say, and he closes his eyes and almost shrugs.

“I want you to be safe.”

Warmth floods you like a fire, and you draw him in for another kiss, this one almost dangerously unreserved. When you part and meet his eyes you’re almost gasping for breath, thoughts a crumbled ruin. So, naturally, you say the first and most inappropriate thing that comes to mind.

“Are you and Asra fighting?”

He jerks back, startled, and the ends of the scarf are ripped painfully from your grip. The remorse on his face is instant and horrified.

“I’m okay!” you’re quick to reassure him, laying a cool palm on his arm. He relaxes, then tenses all at once, shuffling away from your touch. “Muriel?”

You watch him with a puzzled frown, and he glances briefly at your hair, at the swell of your lips, then back over your shoulder with a guilty expression.

“Oops. Am I interrupting something?”

You turn slowly, still watching Muriel from the corner of your eye. Asra emerges down the path, Faust wrapped comfortably around his neck and grinning insouciantly.

“Asra! If I’d known you were leaving too, I would have waited for you.”

He shrugs, adjusting the strap of his bag. “It’s alright. I thought I’d have a talk with Nadia, but she’s busy with masquerade preparations. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

You think briefly (crazily) that this is serendipitous. Now all three of you can return to town together. But there are clouds of some strange emotion drifting thick through the air, and if you aren’t careful you know you can suffocate.

You smile brightly at the two of them. “Well, I’ll just go ahead. There’s something I need to pick up, anyway.” And then, before either of them can say a word, you turn. And flee.

* * *

 

Asra is at the shop when you walk in, a loaf of fresh pumpkin bread tucked under your arm as consolation for your cowardice. The baker has had a lot of business from you today. He gives you a bemused look when you push it across the counter to him.

“Tea?” you ask, even though it’s barely been two hours since you’ve been at Nadia’s.

He doesn’t bat an eye. “If you’re offering, then please.”

You try not to scurry upstairs to the living area, and only half succeed. Would it be too nosy to ask? (Again). Especially after you made that less than subtle exit. You dither as you stoke the fire, coaxing tiny sparks from the sleepy fire salamander. You’re so focused that you don’t hear him until he’s already beside you, one hand warm on your shoulder.

You jump and drop the poor salamander, who gives you a reproachful look and scuttles back beneath the hearth. You crouch down with a whispered “ _Sorry!_ ” and an offering of coal. It accepts the treat with obvious suspicion.

When you stand back up, Asra has two mugs of smoky lapsang souchong in his hands. You take one, grateful, and the two of you slide into your seats; low, sturdy wooden stools pushed beneath a round, scuffed oak table. You take a long, slow sip, and try to calm the curiosity itching at the base of your skull. You won’t ask.

He regards you over the rim of his cup, something mischievously serene in his gaze. You meet his eyes, then reach across the table and take his free hand in your own. You know you’re being unfair: he’s always been weak against any gestures of affection. The smile he sighs into place is resigned and knowing. “It’s alright.”

“Is it?”

He squeezes your hand. “It will be.”

You take a sip of your tea as you consider whether or not to believe him. There’s no reason not to; he’s never lied to you before. But . . . there’s something uncertain lingering in his eyes. You don’t like it.

“Did you talk?”

There’s the shadow of a wince on his face, smoothed before you can really register the sharp pain of it in your heart. Your hand crawls over his so you can rub gentle circles into his wrist with your thumb. “After a fashion.”

You don’t respond, your silence an implicit invitation.

He doesn’t take it. Instead, he places his mug on the table and you mirror him instantly, your hand going immediately to his. He grabs it gratefully, and you smile. It might not be his place to talk about it, you understand. Instead you let yourself be cocooned in a comfortable silence for a moment, before he releases you and moves to take your cups.

The sky outside is dark, now. You can see the stars twinkling brightly outside your window, but they don’t look like they have anything to convey to you, tonight. That’s alright: astrology was never really your forte, anyway. Besides, it’s been a while since you’ve slept in your own bed.

You stretch with a yawn, and shuffle over, the multicoloured quilt bright and messy and inviting. You don’t think Asra’s ever made the bed once in his life.

He looks over in surprise.

“What?”

“You’re staying here tonight?”

You crook an eyebrow at him. “Am I not allowed?”

He smiles, warm. “Of course you are. It’s just been so long I’d almost forgotten what that looked like.”

You roll your eyes at him, the gesture a guard against the sudden, dull pang in your chest. You don’t understand the feeling, and you’re tired enough (for now) to ignore it. You shuck your coat and toss it in a corner, too lazy to bother hanging it. You can magic out the dust and the wrinkles anyway, if it comes to that. Asra watches in silent amusement as you crawl onto the bed, pulling the quilt tightly over yourself and rolling into the wall, making room.

“Are you coming to sleep?” you ask around another yawn.

“Not yet,” he says, “so feel free to spread out for now.”

There’s something . . . different, there. Something you’ve never heard in his voice before. Or maybe you have, only not as loud, not as close. You frown and blink your eyes open, but you only catch his back as he descends the stairs into the shop.

When you wake up, still tucked into the corner of the bed, it’s obvious that he never came to sleep at all.


	2. When will I know my name

“Achoo!”

It’s the third time you’ve sneezed in as many minutes. For all the splendor and the comfort and the glamour, the room is still unconscionably dusty. You pull your handkerchief out of your pocket, dropping it on the nearest wooden table for convenience. You dip back to the book in your hands, trying to ignore the telling tingle in your nose.

“Bless you,” someone says from behind you, and you drop the book immediately on your foot. Your face twists, and you work to bring it back to a more human expression before you turn around.

“Sorry!” Portia says, looking genuinely contrite. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you say brightly. The brief respite of picking the tome off the floor allows you the opportunity to grimace privately, before straightening again with a smile. “You just surprised me. What are you doing here?”

“I brought you some tea.”

You look down at her distinctly empty arms. “Thank you?”

She laughs. “I put it on one of the tables on the main level. I didn’t want to chance it, with all these precious books.”

You nod, your fingers unconsciously caressing the spine of the one in your hands. Beaten leather, dyed a furious blue and embossed with gold gilt. The binding alone must cost a small fortune, but compared to the contents . . . You offer a sheepish smile before your thoughts can run away with you. You’ve already been here for hours, hunched over and sometimes straining your eyes, so absorbed in the text your forget to conjure a light or some magnification. You carefully place it on the short table with your handkerchief, and gesture downstairs.

“Would you like to join me for some tea?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I’m very busy, you know,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Why, I’m practically the Countess’ right hand! Are you trying to entice me to shirk my duties?”

You nod, solemn. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me. All this—” and here you gesture to the towering pile of books you’d amassed, surrounding you like mountains, “was merely a ruse. In fact, my true purpose here is to corrupt the castle staff. Starting, of course, with you.”

“And why me?” she asks, looking decidedly pleased.

“Well, you just admitted you’re the Countess’ right hand. Without you the whole palace will surely collapse.”

She gasps at you, all wide eyes and barely concealed mirth. “Oh my! How nefarious! And what defense could I possibly be expected to employ against such a powerful magician?”

You stand, trying not to trip on the surrounding books so you can maintain the false gravity of your little play. “It’s almost like you don’t have a choice.”

She falls into step beside you, smile easy and relaxed.

When you get down to the main level, you notice the tea service already has an extra cup. You wonder what she would have done if you hadn’t extended the invitation. Finagled one out of you, you’re sure. The warmth of her presence alone is awfully persuasive.

“So,” she starts, pouring you a cup of deliciously fragrant Oolong. “How are things going in here? Discover anything useful?”

You try not to sigh. “This place is a treasure trove of information. Maybe I’m just not looking in the right places.”

“Or maybe you’re looking too hard.”

You cock an eyebrow at her. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe you should let the library tell you what you need.” She shrugs. “Magicians can do that, can’t they? Let objects speak to them?”

You give her an appraising look, which she ignores in favour of more tea. “We can. Thank you, Portia.”

She winks at you extravagantly. “What would you do without me?”

“Right now? Probably take a nap,” you answer honestly.

She laughs and reaches over. The lid of the tin that was sitting on the tray snaps open with a little pop. Square, golden brown cookies are nestled inside, the smell of butter and rich spice wafting out in a puff of sugar. She holds it out to you and you wipe the dust off your fingers with a thick cloth napkin before you pluck one out. Shimmering gems of candied fruits are embedded in intricate mosaics on the surface.

The first bite is soft and juicy. You almost moan and Portia giggles, taking a cookie of her own.

“Good, aren’t they?”

“Beautiful too,” you agree.

“We’re supposed to serve them on fine, flat dishes. It helps highlight the intricate designs.” She leans in close conspiratorially, like she’s about to divulge a great secret, her eyes dancing. “But I thought you might like to have them around while you work. If you seal up the tin, they’ll stay fresh. Just don’t get any crumbs in here.”

“I would never!” you say indignantly, surreptitiously wiping the crumbs on your shirt into your lap. “Thank you, Portia.”

She smiles at you. “You are very welcome.”

* * *

 

When you walk up to the shop, bleary-eyed from staring so long at pages dense with text, you almost don't realize that something's amiss. But when you reach one hand up, ready to grip the door and swing yourself in side, it creaks backwards without resistance. Already open.

  
Fatigue is blown off you like snow in a stiff gust, and you straighten, creeping closer to the threshold and listening intently. Nothing. You consider - for just a moment - that maybe you were just tired this morning and you hadn't locked up properly, when you hear the faintest scrabbling sound, followed by a piercing shatter and a string of impressively inventive cursing.

  
Oh. It's _him_ again.

  
You push against the sturdy wood and let the whole thing swing wildly inwards, knocking directly into the backside of the tall man crouching on the floor. Shards of some sharp glass are scattered at his feet, and he spins to you with a guilty expression that he quickly tries to smooth into a winning smile. "Oh! Magician! Just the person I was hoping to see."

  
You peer over his shoulder, trying to make out what it is he's destroyed. The glass has spilled everywhere - you can even see some small pieces glinting underneath the far counter. You fix him with a _look_. He flinches.

"I didn't break anything of yours, I promise! I just knocked into something on my way out - you know how it is, I'm all legs I just can't help it - and I dropped the vial that I keep in my jacket. You know, for emergencies, you can never tell just when you'll need-"

  
You finally see it, making a mad dash for the doorway from between the heels of his boots. Another. Damn. **Leech**. You look between him and the creature, trying to decide between the myriad responses running through your head. Then, you lean down towards his face (the man is still, ridiculously, crouched in front of you), lift one hand so you can gently push back the long red hair hanging over his eyes, and hiss, "I thought you gave me back the key."

  
The flush on his face goes quickly from flustered to embarrassed, and he darts his eyes away. "Right. Well, uh, about that. You see, I knew I would still need to come inside, probably when no one was around . . . Wait no, that makes me sound like a criminal. I mean, not that I'm not a criminal, of course, just. I am not a suspicious person. Or, hmm, it's probably suspicious just to say that . ."

  
You release his hair into his stammering face and he sputters as some ends catch in his mouth. You're too tired right now for the fourth degree, and he clearly isn't capable of making a concise statement on his own. You rub your temple with one hand, and make a wide, flat sweeping motion with the other. The shards on the floor shimmer, growing brighter and brighter until they've dissolved back into sand.

  
"Oh!' he says, standing too quickly and knocking his head on a low overhead beam hung with dried herbs. Petals of lavender dust his head. "That's certainly, hmm. Efficient, I suppose, although you'll still have to sweep up." He turns, already hunting for a broom. "And that does beg the question of what we're going to do with the leech."

  
"Well, I think he's earned his freedom, don't you?"

  
"I-," he starts, looking very much like he wants to protest. He catches the look on your face and turns away, quickly making sweeping motions with the broom he'd liberated from the corner of the shop. "Right, yes, of course. A valiant escape! We should all reward that kind of hard work and tenacity."

  
He edges towards the threshold, sweeping dramatically all the while.

  
"Oh no, Doctor Devorak. I don't think you've earned yours." You reach over and pull the door closed as he gets the last of the sand out, shutting it precariously close to his nose. He lets out something that might be a squeak, and immediately takes two steps backwards. You pluck the broom out of his tight grip. "Take a seat."

  
He shuffles awkwardly over to the table in the back, settling himself into the customer's chair. You lean the broom back against the wall and regard him coolly. "I changed my mind. Come on, we're going upstairs."

  
"Oh. I . . . Upstairs?" He asks, for some reason no longer able to look you in the face.

You roll your eyes at him. "Yes, upstairs. Stop being so dramatic. I just decided that I'd rather keep my eye on you. Besides, we won't be interrupted up there."

  
"Oh. Right, yes. Of course." He stands smoothly, jacket falling dramatically off one shoulder. He turns in a near circle as he tries to grab the trailing end. "Upstairs then."

  
You lead him up the stairs, listening to his steady footfalls behind you to make sure he isn't trying to run away. You step towards the stove and he makes immediately for the table by the wall like he already knows where it is.

  
"You've been here before," you say, making soothing motions at the little fire salamander. Its tongue flicks against your fingers as you feed it small bits of coal.

  
"I-," he starts, going quite red in the face. You briefly wonder what it would take to fluster him until his hairline disappears. "That is, your master. . ," he tries again, voice cracking just slightly on the word.

  
"Oh, that's right. I forgot you used to make house calls." You arch an eyebrow at him, filling the water of the kettle. You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving his face. "You and _my master_."

  
He goes (impossibly), redder, and stammers out some more words that don't manage to turn into full sentences. Interesting. You watch him fumble with grammar for another minute before he lapses into a final, humiliated silence. Something oddly victorious rises in your chest and you frown against it, swallowing the surge. You must be more tired than you realized. It's making you mean. The kettle whistles behind you and you stand still for just another moment, letting the piercing shriek clear your head.

  
He watches as you strain dark liquid into two cups, forehead furrowed. "Is tea supposed to be that dark?"

  
You push a steaming mug across the table towards the doctor; a gesture of silent reconciliation.

  
"It's coffee."

  
"Oh!" He takes it gratefully in his hands, looking surprised and not a little pleased. "Thank you."

  
You shrug. "I thought you might like this better. Besides, I could use the caffeine."

  
He takes a fortifying sip and sighs. "This is actually excellent. Thank you."

  
" _Actually_?" You take a sip of your own. "I'm insulted, Doctor."

  
"Call me Julian."

  
You level a look at him over the coiling steam rising off the surface of your drink. He looks suddenly too relaxed in your apartment and you consider saying something but. You really don't want to fight with him. You'll save your energy for your interrogation.

  
"So, Julian," you start, and he beams when you say his name. It might be cute if you weren't so intent on being mad at him. "Why did you break into my shop? Again?"

  
His smile falters slightly, but doesn't quite fall off. _Much_ too comfortable. "Well, I was hoping I could find something."

  
"Me?" you ask innocently, watching as you take another sip.

  
"Ah. That is what I said, wasn't it?"

  
You shrug. "Might as well be honest. You've already conned your way into my apartment for some coffee. I can't imagine whatever you're looking for is going to drastically impair my good opinion of you now."

  
He laughs and you spill some coffee down the side of your cup. "That's certainly true, I suppose. Although I'll have you know this (and here he gestures around, indicating your room and your cups), was never my intention."

  
He leans forwards and you instinctively follow, too empathetic not to mirror his motion. Besides, you're so curious you can't help yourself. His voice lowers invitingly and you strain to catch his words. "I'm looking for a memory."

  
You pull back, bewildered, your heart hammering hard in your chest. A _memory_. You could almost laugh, but you can feel the air pulling through you crazed and frantic. Memories are in very short supply, around here. You clear your throat, and let your voice level. "I'm afraid we don't carry those."

  
He snorts, good-natured. "I would frankly be both shocked and impressed if you happened to sell the exact memory that I'm looking for. No, I just need some . . . help,' he says significantly. "Remembering."

  
"Oh," you say, deflating further. "You want a memory charm. Or a potion? I'm afraid my memory magic is not very good. . ."

  
"NO!" He coughs, looking embarrassed, and takes a sip so large you can see he's already drained half his mug. "No, no, no, nothing like that. I was just hoping your . . . master . . . would be able to offer some insight."

"He's not here right now," you say, voice carefully neutral.  
  
To his credit, he flushes and looks at least a little bit abashed. "I. Yes, I know."  
  
"So, you thought _something_ of his could give you some insight."  
  
He huffs, trying to look put-out and succeeding only in looking embarrassed. "Um. Yes."  
  
You take a long sip, finishing off the last of the coffee. The sky is starting to darkened at the edges; you can see the shadows changing, growing longer, reaching across the table for the fugitive doctor. You have the sudden sense that something is closing in on him, and you aren't sure if it is a trap or darkness of his own making. The cards whisper to you from their pack, still tucked in close at your waist. _Coming Back  
_  
You speak before you can decide which words you will say. "What are you looking for?"

* * *

  
You're trekking through the forest, lifting yourself clear of familiar roots as Julian trips along behind you. His long coat is consistently getting caught on both branches and brambles, and you roll your eyes at his theatrics when he tries to free himself, ultimately going over and helping him anyway.  
  
"So, um," he says, deftly tripping over a small rock, "Why are we wandering through the woods in the middle of the night? Are you tricking me into some sort of sadistic ritual?"  
  
"Would you leave if I was?"  
  
He makes a short keening sound as you gracelessly tug his jacket free of an ensnaring branch. "Yes! Of course I would!"  
  
"And what if the ritual could tell you what you needed to know?"  
  
"I . . .," he falters. He huffs at you, but it's more resigned than upset. "I _have_ to know. No matter what."  
  
You look at him, at the exhausted conviction on his face. He means it. "You're brave, huh?"  
  
He perks up, even if his smile is still a little tired at the edges. "I don't know if that's what I would call it."  
  
"Oh no, you're brave," you say softly. You reach out and tug a wayward twig out of his increasingly unruly hair. "Almost stupidly so."  
  
He barks a laugh. "Thanks."  
  
"Don't mention it."  
  
You walk around him, ready to lead him back into the ever darkening gloom. You nearly trip on a rock, and Julian's long, gloved hand snaps out and drags you back. He ducks down, trying to read your face in the fading light.  
  
"This might just be the darkness talking, but you look tired. Are you all right?"  
  
You wave him off with a slightly uneven smile. "I'm alright. I've just had a long day. I was up all night doing some research at the palace."  
  
"Oh. Oh no, you came back to the shop to sleep, didn't you?"  
  
You shrug easily. "The thought may have crossed my mind."  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, looking genuinely remorseful. "I didn't mean to keep you up."  
  
"It's alright. This seems important. Even if you're being annoyingly vague about what it is you're trying to remember."  
  
He's silent for a moment, as you crash a little inelegantly through the woods. His arm reaches out to steady you. "The cure for the plague."  
  
"What?!" You whirl around so quickly you catch yourself on your own hem, falling into the embrace of the closest tree. He makes a concerned noise and helps you up, hands firm around your forearms.  
  
"Hey, are you sure you're okay to be walking through the woods right now?"  
  
You snort. "Don't use me as an excuse just because you want to leave. Why do you need to know the cure for the plague? I thought it was gone," you say, a sinking feeling growing inside you. Your arms feel heavy, suddenly, and you lean carefully back against the tree.  
  
He shrugs with a practiced, casual ease, but won't meet your eyes. "It just seems like something that would be useful to know."  
  
"So you cured it."  
  
His brow furrows. "I don't think I did. But . . . I knew how to."  
  
You watch him for a moment, and you can see something in the tension of his shoulders and the way he holds his arms - just up, just out, like he's ready to fend something off. You let out a breath. "Okay. That does seem pretty important."  
  
"That's it?" He finally looks towards you, and you quirk your lips.  
  
"We can sort out the details later." You step forwards, steady again under your own weight. "Come on, we should keep moving. It's only going to get colder."  
  
He draws his coat tighter around his lank frame. "Great."

It's another half an hour at least before you make it to Muriel's hut. The light has drawn down close now, the last vestiges of pink leached fully from the sky. Floating orbs of light circle the two of you in lazy orbit as you pick your way at a significantly more sedate pace than you'd started out with.  
  
"Not to complain," he begins, as though he's been doing anything but for the past ten minutes. "But how much farther is this going to be?"  
  
"Calm down, Julian, I wouldn't let you die here."  
  
"Well I wasn't actually worried about that, until you said it."  
  
He stills as the rough mound comes into view, the door materializing as your lights come closer.  
  
"Oh," he says. He looks at you, and then hesitantly back at the large slab of wood. "You've brought me to a forest witch."  
  
"Huh. I guess I have," you say, amused. You step forwards and he follows, reluctantly pulled in by the shifting focus of the light. You raise your hand, and knock.  
  
You'd almost forgotten (but you didn't, but you _won't_ ), what sheer presence he has. He fills the frame impressively, the dancing glow from the fire at his back almost completely blocked out. He's surprised to see you. Which, all things considered, is more than fair.  
  
He bends down towards you, face bewildered but still a little soft, and you can finally see the edges of him in dim relief. You reach a hand up and-  
  
"Wait, I know you, I-" You can hear Julian stuttering behind you, and you turn just in time to see him rushing forwards, stepping just in front of you and slapping your cheek with the edge of his dirty coat; he flings one arm in front of you and it begins slipping from his shoulder. His boots slip in the mud as he tries to back the two of you up. "You're the Sc-"  
  
"Muriel!" you exclaim, twice as loudly as you have the energy for. You duck beneath Julian's outstretched arm and throw your arms clumsily around Muriel's (well, you'd like it to be his shoulders, but his waist is what you can realistically reach). He puts an arm around you even as he glowers at the doctor, who is at least making the effort to school his expression into one that conveys less soul-fleeing terror. You cast him a look from under Muriel's head that you hope is conveying your very frantic pleas of _Shut up Shut up Shut up_. "I'm so sorry to come unannounced like this, and so late. But . . . we really need your help."  
  
You don't miss the way he tenses beneath you when you say 'we', and you extract yourself from him so you can step back and look him fully in the face. "Is that okay?"  
  
Something twists around his mouth; you can see his jaw working, can almost hear the 'No' currently working its way up his throat. He swallows, with some difficulty, and steps back from the doorway. "Come inside, it's cold."  
  
Julian coughs and walks up, albeit with a much subdued swagger. "Thank you, ah, Muriel, was it? Terribly sorry to impose, especially in the dead of night I'm sure you were uhm. Busy. But I appreciate whatever help you can give me."  
  
Muriel turns to look at you as he shuts the door. "You're here for Julian?"  
  
You offer an apologetic, shrug. "Sorry. I know you don't like strangers, but I can't help him with this."  
  
He gives a disbelieving scoff. Julian, meanwhile, looks up from where he'd been aimlessly wandering the small room at the mention of his name. He looks gratifyingly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, do we know each other? I swear, I've usually got a remarkable memory for people but . . ."  
  
"Memory is the problem," you cut in.  
  
Muriel closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead with one hand. "Of course." He gestures to the chairs by his table and you and Julian each take a seat, leaving Muriel to stand, towering over the both of you. "What do you want to remember?"  
  
Julian takes a deep breath under Muriel's unflinching gaze, but his voice doesn't falter. "The night of Count Lucio's murder."  
  
"You didn't kill him," he says, immediate.  
  
Julian shrugs. "That's good to know. But that's not really what I was curious about."  
  
"You aren't relieved to find out you're not a murderer?" you ask him, incredulous.  
  
"If I murdered him he had it coming," Julian says, and for a moment his face is dark even against the flames in the hearth. You're startled, but not as uncomfortable with the notion than you'd thought you would be. Your hand reaches out, almost instinctively, and you brush it gently against Muriel's wrist; the lightest touch.  
  
Muriel folds his arms up over his chest. "Well, that's true at least."  
  
The air is tense but somehow much more comfortable than it was before, something urgent and companionable running between the two men now. You feel suddenly sidelined; cast out to the edges, and you make a desperate play to claw your way back. "He wants to remember the cure for the plague."  
  
"You found the cure?" Muriel actually looks impressed when he asks, standing a little looser.  
  
Julian's mouth twists upwards in a wry smirk. "Yes. Too bad I can't remember it."  
  
"So. You know it's coming back." It isn't a question. The heavy certainty in his voice brooks no arguments, and with a nauseous roll in your stomach, you realize you knew it too.  
  
Julian's voice is solemn. "I've seen the beetles."  
  
"The beetles?"  
  
The two of them look at you, one with surprise, and one with pity and something almost tangent to . . . envy.  
  
"The plague beetles," Julian supplies helpfully. "Carriers of the plague?"  
  
You cast about for any notion of familiarity and come up empty, with a splitting headache to match. You shake your head slowly, eyes screwed shut. "Sorry. I can't remember."  
  
"Ah. Well," he says kindly, "that's something we have in common then."  
  
Muriel isn't looking at the two of you anymore, but his eyes flash against the fire. "You remember the plague beetles just fine Julian."  
  
Julian sputters. "I don't-Do you. . . .?"  
  
The two of you watch, bewildered, as Julian lets out a shaky laugh. "No, you're right. I remember . . . much more than I'm interested in remembering."  
  
"But not what you really want to remember," you say, trying for a comforting hand on his shoulder. He sobers, sitting a little straighter.  
  
"That's right. So. Muriel. I have come to ask you for your help."  
  
Muriel looks down at you, focusing for just a second too long on where your hand rests on his shirt. Something moves across his face, just too quickly for you to catch. "Fine. Let's get this over with."  
  
He crosses directly over to the hearth, rousing Inanna from her nap.  
  
Julian starts under your palm. "Is that a _wolf_?!"  
  
You give him a quick pat and move to stand. "Yes. So behave yourself."  
  
Muriel stares contemplatively down, eyes unfocused. You let your fingers brush his palm as you move beside him. "Do you know what you need to do?"  
  
He lets out a low sigh. "Yes."  
  
"Do you need any help?'  
  
"Not from you."  
  
"Right," you say, trying not to let the words sting. You spin around to Julian, still eyeing Inanna warily from his seat. "I guess that means you're up, Doctor."  
  
"Yes! Okay. What do you need me to do?" He stands, trying to edge carefully against the wall furthest from the wolf, who watches him with amusement.  
  
You roll your eyes at him. "Being across the room isn't going to stop her from mauling you, if she wants."  
  
"Oh. Yes, of course," he says, flushing, and he moves cautiously closer. "Erm. What now?"  
  
"Hold out your hand," Muriel directs him, gesturing with a long stone blade.  
  
The corners of Julian's mouth curl up in something alarmingly self-satisfied. "Oh, yes, I see. Blood magic, is it? Very well, let's have at it."  
  
He pulls one long glove off with flair - hopelessly dramatic - and presents the pale expanse of his palm for Muriel's inspection. The man meets his gaze evenly, holding the knife just above his palm, inching the blade close, closer. You can see Julian nearly trembling, and you hope desperately that it's only nerves. Muriel drops a round, smooth stone into the waiting hand, then grabs a sheaf of herbs from his mantle and begins delicately cutting.  
  
Julian turns the object over, weaving it expertly between his fingers. "Oh. Hmm," he says, tossing it up and watching it with a curious eye. "I don't think this is sharp enough."  
  
"We're not doing blood magic," Muriel says gruffly, dumping perfectly cut enderwort into a small burlap cloth, already heavy with lavender and other herbs. He ties it into a small package and dumps the thing into his cauldron, already heating over the fire.  
  
A fragrant, heavily perfumed aroma spills out almost immediately, and you sink reflexively onto Muriel's bed behind you, knees buckling against the thick pile of furs and fabrics.  
  
Julian wrinkles his nose. "That's, ah, very pungent."  
  
"Then it's working," Muriel says, lifting a thick cloth over his own mouth. Julian looks askance at him, a little alarmed.  
  
"Should I be breathing this in? Is it . . . is it safe?" he asks, words starting to slow.  
  
"Yes. You're supposed to breathe it in." He drops a thick cloth over your face and you sit up, holding it over your mouth. The fog pressing on your head clears instantly, and you're just in time for a good view of Julian stumbling, shaky on his legs.  
  
You jump off the bed, hurrying to grab him a chair before he just full out collapses on the floor. You have to step carefully over Inanna, who's sprawled out before the fire, eyes blissfully closed and leg twitching. Soft growls emerge from her snout, almost playful.  
  
The edge of the seat has barely hit the back of his legs before he finally folds, long limbs falling recklessly any which way as he goes down. You drop your cloth to the ground as you rush to catch his boneless form, trying to keep his head from being knocked around.  
  
Muriel sighs -something soft and fleeting, muffled beneath the fabric - and drags Julian and the chair over to the wall, where he can be carefully propped up. His breathing is slow, eyes heavy and unfocused. You pick up your cloth and give Muriel a concerned glance.  
  
"He's fine."  
  
He reaches over, checking to make sure that the smooth stone is still clutched in Julian's bare fist. It glows faintly in the darkness before he closes his fingers back over it, tight. Then Muriel retreats to the bed, dropping carefully onto the edge. There's more than enough space beside him for you.  
  
You hover at Julian's side, breathing shallowly. The rise and fall of his chest is even but faint, and you can't help feeling just the tiniest bit, well. Worried. You lean on the wall beside him, sliding until sitting. There's less vapour in the air down here, and you breathe a little better.  
  
"So, how long will this take?" you ask, hand resting on Julian's wrist so you can passively track his pulse. When you turn to Muriel, you find that he's already watching you, hunched over his knees and staring so intently he could be glowering.  
  
"That depends on him."  
  
You furrow you brow and turn back to Julian, concerned. His face is contorted - he looks distressed. Without thinking you lift a hand and press a finger to the worried knot between his brows, rubbing the pad in firm, gentle circles. Your cloth is discarded in your lap but it hardly seems necessary, anymore. He huffs a little sigh and lists even further over one side of the chair.  
  
A warm hand encircles your own, pulling it off of his face. "Stop that."  
  
You worry your lip, still focused on the sleeping doctor. "He looks like he's . . . uncomfortable," you say, fidgeting lightly in his grip.  
  
You can feel the shrug all the way in his fingers. "It doesn't matter. You have to let the memories surface as they naturally would." Something dark slips into his voice, and you turn to stare up at him, alarmed. "Not all memories are good."  
  
You shiver despite the blazing fire still burning in the hearth, and retract your hands, settling them into the valley of your lap. On the floor, sandwiched between these two men you feel suddenly small. Unknowable.  
  
Unreal.  
  
"What do you think the cost would really be?" you ask softly, speaking directly to the floor.  
  
He's silent for so long you'd wonder if he heard you. But he's still standing, tall and at attention at your side, gazing down at the two of you from heights you can't imagine.  
  
"The cost of what?" he asks, doing a poor job of acting like he hasn't guessed exactly what you mean. He grimaces, when you look up, and focuses on a spot against the wall, too far left and a little too high to actually be looking at Julian's head.  
  
"Is it a cost I can pay?"  
  
His jaw works silently as he thinks, and you can see him considering not answering at all. But he huffs out an angry breath, and, still not looking at you, says, "No."  
  
You nod unhappily, drawing up your knees so you can drop your cheek against them. The curiosity is like a constant itch under you skin, and you've gotten much better at ignoring it, really you have, but. You are a person with no history - an unnatural miracle that fills up a life you don't quite feel is your own. The questions are bold, tonight, brushing up against you like the tangible lines of a blade as you watch someone else fight for answers you never could.  
  
Your words are quiet, lighter than the smoke still hanging in the air. "Is it kinder?"  
  
Muriel doesn't move, but you can see his eyes start to slide in your direction. You want to hold them but you can't.  
  
You're suddenly afraid of what you'll see.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Is it kinder that I don't know myself?"  
  
He stiffens, you can feel it even without touching him, can sense the power coiling back inside him, ready and waiting. _Flight_ , you think to yourself, half-drowsy in the humid air, and you lean against his legs to anchor him to you. "Sorry."  
  
You know only the rough sketch of his history; an outline hastily scribbled against the locked contents of his chapters. There are things that live inside him, dark and tortured and so, unspeakably sad that you can almost hear them crying up against you, just outside of range. He relaxes, fractionally, inch by heavily muscled inch, and you lay a hand against the top of his boot.  
  
"Sometimes I wish I didn't," he says, sliding down to sit beside you. His bulk takes up the rest of the remaining wall and then some, pushing you into Julian's drooping figure. You lift your hand up and measure out the beats at his wrist, just to check. "Remember. There are things that I-"  
  
The air that pushes out of him is too soft to be a rumble, but you feel it vibrate all along your right side and into your chest. You move your hand to rest on top of his, and he turns his palms up beneath you and grips tightly. "I did terrible things. Things that I wish . . ." His face contorts, and it is a glower and a grimace and pain and desolation all at once. You turn into him, press up further into his space, tuck your feet under his propped legs. You don't want him to feel alone.  
  
He shudders. "I know it's selfish. To want to forget. But sometimes . . ."  
  
You stand so suddenly he starts, and you nearly trip disentangling yourself from his legs and his draped cloak. His hand tightens briefly before he immediately begins to release you, and you clutch him back twice as securely. You settle yourself in between his knees, so you can look him in the face, and he watches you with something like soft wonder before he remembers himself and looks away, blushing profusely.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asks, but he doesn't push you away.  
  
"It's not selfish," you say, leaning in close so you can put your free hand against his chest. The heartbeat behind it is steady and deep, and if you close your eyes you could imagine it's the pulse of the earth - impossibly large and calm and giving. "You can't go back and change things, so why let yourself drown in the past? You're so, so _good_ , Muriel. Whoever or whatever you were before. If anyone deserves a clean slate, it's you."

His breath catches, you can feel it, and you lean in towards him. You can see the barest hint of anticipation in his eyes, but he stays perfectly still. "Do you want it?"  
  
"I. What?" His face is turning even redder, blooms of colour spreading high on his cheeks.  
  
"Do you want a clean slate?"  
  
"I." His brow furrows, glower instantly replacing his blush. He's frowning so hard you could almost cut yourself on the sharp curve of his mouth. "Of course I do. But I know. . . You already said it. I can't change the past."  
  
"No," you agree, a little sad. Your hand drifts higher, following the hard lines of his chest along the knife's edge of his collarbone, snaking easily around his neck. Your fingers reach out to tangle in the hair at his nape."But you can forget it."  
  
"NO!" He scrambles, eyes wide, and you let him go without a fight. He doesn't move far, barely an inch of space away, but it feels like a small chasm.  
  
"I can't make it disappear entirely," you explain, hands up in a placating gesture. "And I wouldn't, anyway. Even if I could. I couldn't take that much from you." Your tone is edging towards bitter, but you can't help it. You swallow and start again. "But I can . . . dull the edges, sort of. Make it seem distant and far away. Like a dream."  
  
You hold your hand out towards him, and you can see in the shift of his eyes, of his posture, how tempted he is to take it. He swallows, hard, and turns away. "I can't."  
  
You don't push him.  
  
He settles back into position around you and tempted though you are you don't press any closer. He clasps his hands together, looking pensive. "It. I don't ever want to be that way again. To . . . to _do_ anything like that again. I-I _need_ to remember." He takes a deep breath, and finally meets your gaze. "But. Thank you."  
  
Your smile is wry and a little twisted, but sincere. "I thought I'd offer."  
  
He unclasps his hands and lifts his arms, and you accept his invitation, sliding in closer and pressing yourself back against his chest. You can feel the heat of him, steadily climbing behind you, radiating from the hands hovering at your waist. You tuck yourself beneath his chin and grab his wrists, circle them tight around you like a belt, lashing the two of you together. It's a little too warm now - the fire, the clothes, his heat - but.  
  
You can't remember the last time you were this comfortable.  
  
His breathing evens out on top of you, the rapid pounding of his heart steadying into something measured and calm and sleepy. You close your eyes, just for a moment, and curl up against him. His arms around you are solid and secure.  
  
You wake to the cool dark and an undignified shout as Julian topples fully from his seat, crashing face-first into Muriel's shoulder. You're shielded from the blow but not the impact, Muriel's arm pressing against your face as Julian struggles upright.  
  
"Well!" He says, brushing every available inch of himself. He shakes his limbs out, loose and too long, and narrowly avoids cuffing Muriel in the head. "Thanks for that! Did I die, for a moment there? I swear, my heart was going so slowly it must have stopped! Not that you two would have noticed, eh, being busy with. Uh."  
  
He notices your position (you're still tucked very tightly against Muriel's mostly bare chest, one of his arms curled securely around your waist), and colours, "Oh. Am I interrupting? No, wait. I was already here in the room before. Did you- While I was sleeping-"  
  
You roll your eyes and press yourself off Muriel, who's somehow glowering at the doctor and blushing at the same time.  
  
"Well?" You say expectantly.  
  
Julian eyes you and goes a little redder. "I. Ah. I mean, I didn't want to come right out and ask-"  
  
"Did it work?" you ask, curious and eager to skip all his fumbling preamble.  
  
"What? Oh! Oh, right, yes. Of course." He furrows his brow thoughtfully. "Well, ah. No. I mean, not quite?"  
  
You yawn, stepping away from Muriel and stretching your arms out wide. The hut is frigid to your skin, and you shiver to yourself. "I'm making some coffee. I'll make some for you too if you get to the point."  
  
"Well," he starts, frowning pensively. "I couldn't go back to the night in question. For some reason, it was like those memories. . . weren't mine, anymore. There was nothing there."  
  
He follows you to the hearth, where you're bent low to try and get the fire going again. A small flame starts, flickering low in your hands. "But, I got the next best thing! An accurate retelling of the night in question."  
  
You cast him a look from the corner of your eye. "From who?"  
  
"A. Well, a crow."  
  
". . . What."  
  
"I mean, he wasn't really a crow, of course! He was awfully tall, for one thing, and covered in rope," He pauses here, rubbing at the edge of his jaw. "Alarmingly attractive, for a bird. He called himself . . ."  
  
"The hanged man," you say, in a half-whisper. You watch Julian carefully, suddenly wary.  
  
"Er, yes. How'd you know?" He's all surprise. You walk closer to him, checking his eyes and not as careful of the fire in your palms as you could be. He starts and begins slapping wildly at his sleeve.  
  
"I've heard about him from Asra," you say, still trying to discern something from him. You press your (extinguished) hands to the side of his neck. His pulse is there, only slightly slower than yours. "But he's notoriously difficult to meet. You would have to be-"  
  
"On the edge of death."  
  
You both turn at the sound of Muriel's deep voice. He's rummaging along a tall shelf, grabbing two mismatched cups. He sets them on his table. "I don't have any coffee."  
  
"I know," you say, going over to your bag, still discarded on the bed from last night. You pull out a small sack, fresh from the market the day before. Then eye the two mugs on the table and pause. "Do you not want any?"  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
"Okay. I also have a lavender tea that Selasi said was really good, if you want."  
  
He shrugs, looking away from you. "I'm okay. Thank you."  
  
You watch him carefully, then move over to the kettle. You're still too tired to make the trip for water so you let your magic fill it, feeling the weight of iron in your hands grow steadily heavier. It takes a little effort to have it situated over the fireplace, and you make a mental note to fill it after it's already on, next time.  
  
You settle down before it, Inanna shifting obligingly aside as you hold your hands out for warmth. She noses at the fabric in your lap, laying her snout wet against your side. Adorable.  
  
"So, what happened?"  
  
Julian starts, still staring a little warily at the wolf pressed tight against you. "Oh. Right, the Hanged Man." He furrows his brow, bottom lip tucked under his teeth. "Well, if he's to be believed, I certainly made an effort to kill the Count."  
  
"But someone beat you to it," you say. He nods and looks down at his hands; one free and one gloved, perfect symmetry in black and white. You can see it in his face: he would have done it. He would have been happy to. Something shameful and convicted rises in his eyes and he flexes his fingers.The smooth stone falls from his pale fist, dull and small. "Oh. Right." He picks it back up between long, slender fingers, and holds it up to his visible eye. "What was this again?"  
  
Muriel is still watching you, sitting carelessly on the floor. It's a moment before he realizes that the question was directed at him. "An anchor."  
  
"I see," he says, confident. Then, "An anchor to what?"  
  
Muriel closes his eyes and shrugs. "Your body."  
  
"Ah, yes. Of course." A pause. "Was I, ah, in danger of not going . . . back to it?"  
  
"There was a risk."  
  
"Oh. I see." He rolls the stone carefully between his fingers, agitated. "I feel like that's something I should have been told before I agreed to this magic business."  
  
"Would that have changed your mind?" You ask, fingers trailing lightly through Inanna's fur.  
  
"Well. No. But that's hardly the point-"  
  
"Sorry, you're right," you say. "We'll be sure to be more thorough next time."  
  
"Oh. No, I don't think I'll be doing anything like that again."  
  
"Why not? It worked, didn't it?"  
  
"Well. Yes, but-"  
  
"I told you. You didn't kill him. But it's just like you to confess to it anyway." Muriel breaks in, tired of this tangent.  
  
"Well, the end result was the same."  
  
"Relief?" Muriel asks, sitting heavily at his table. Julian jumps at the noise, but moves to join him in the other available seat.  
  
"Oh, that, sure. Of course. But more importantly . . . it stopped the plague." He leans forwards, staring at you (and doing an admirable job of ignoring Inanna, who is watching him with undisguised mirth).  
  
_What?_  You try to catch Muriel's eye at this shocking revelation, but he is looking resolutely at the Doctor.  
  
"Lucio was causing the plague? How?"  
  
Julian lets out a sharp bark of derisive laughter. "He wasn't causing it. He _is_  the plague. The fact that it made him sick too is ironic and justifiably hilarious."  
  
"So his death . . . stopped it."  
  
"Yes. But for some reason, the beetles are back. Which means . . . so is the plague. Wait. What _does_  that mean?"  
  
You manage to catch Muriel's eye this time, face serious. "That's true. After Lucio was burned, the plague effectively disappeared. So why is it coming back now? Is it because of the Masquerade? Is he getting stronger? What's _changed_?"  
  
Muriel glowers at the table, look so murderous you're almost shocked that the wood doesn't splinter from the sheer force of his gaze. "He must be trying to come back."  
  
"Oh." You swallow. "He must be succeeding."  
  
The somber mood is punctuated by the shrieking of the kettle as the water finally comes to a boil. You jump enough to dislodge Inanna, who grunts indignantly at you and stands, trotting over to sit by Muriel. Julian's long legs scrabble away beneath the table, his knee knocking sharply on the underside with an audible _Crack_!  
  
You can't stop the laugh that escapes you, and he shoots you a wry, lightly reproachful look. "It's not nice to laugh," he says, holding his leg. You shrug and slide one of the mugs across to him, now full of something fragrant and dark. "Please accept this apology."  
  
"Ooh, yes. Just what the doctor ordered!" he says, and you roll your eyes.  
  
You fix your own drink and walk back, cupping the second mug in your hands and letting the warmth leach into your skin. It's still too hot to sip, but this close, you can see the small chips at the rim, the familiarity of those telltale brushes of colour at the base. Asra painted this mug - he might even have made it. You inhale the sharp scent of your drink, along with the faintest edge of patchouli and peppercorn. This is Asra's mug.  
  
You move towards the table and Muriel immediately makes as if to stand. You wholly ignore this, instead backing up and perching directly on his lap, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his face. His skin burns, bright, and you do your best to hide the amusement in your smile. Cute.  
  
There's a slight cough, and when you turn Julian has splashed at least a tablespoon of coffee on the dark wood. You wait patiently while he regains his breath, wheezing slightly.  
  
"You two are awfully. Hm. Close," he says. Muriel tenses beneath you but doesn't make any effort to leave. You're awfully tempted to lean back into him but decide maybe now isn't the time to press your affection or your luck. "Do you forget I'm in the room the second I stop talking?"  
  
"Is that why you never shut up?" Muriel grumbles, and you can't quite hold in your laugh.  
  
"Sorry!" You say, putting the mug down so you can make conciliatory gestures at him. "We couldn't possibly forget about you. You're the reason we're all here right now. Besides which you have a very . . . dramatic ("Annoying," Muriel mumbles under his breath, still red but shyly snaking an arm around your waist) personality."  
  
He grins at you, oddly appeased. "I thought I was being rather charming."  
  
You reach back towards the table, blowing lightly on the fragrant steam still floating out of the mug. You take a small sip, lip catching on one of the chipped edges, and pause. It feels strangely intimate to drink from something of Asra's outside of the shop. He has a cup here. He has a whole history and a life that you aren't privileged to.  
  
You're still gazing pensively at the mug when Muriel tightens his arm around your waist and draws you closer, so he can look into the cup. Something bubbles unsettlingly low in your stomach. You fidget in his lap, suddenly and inexplicably uncomfortable.  
  
He withdraws his arm immediately and you feel worse.  
  
"Here," you say, turning into him. You hold the mug up to his face and he breathes in, deeply.  
  
"That's not coffee."  
  
His voice is too close and too deep; you can feel the rumble of it up along your side and all through the core of you. You should put out the fire - suddenly it's much too hot.  
  
"No," you say, and for some reason your voice is pitched a little lower than normal. "I made the lavender tea instead."  
  
He reaches to take it from you and you let him, the jolt of his rough fingers against the smooth glaze of Asra's mug setting fire to your skin. You release it too fast, and it's only Muriel's remarkable reflexes that prevent the tragedy.  
  
"Sorry!"  
  
His free arm flexes, and you think for a moment he's going to take your hand, but he takes a sip and immediately stills, frowning down at the mug.  
  
You have the strangest, almost manic urge to get off his lap. You slide off as nonchalantly as possible, nearly stepping on Inanna's tail as you move around the table.  
  
"So," Julian says, clearly in tune with the sudden strangeness in the air and choosing to valiantly ignore it, "What do we do now?"  
  
You look at Muriel, who's staring so fixedly down at the cup in his hands you aren't sure he's heard anything at all.  
  
_What do you do now?_


	3. Weren't we friends, once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asra is being weirdly distant. Muriel is just being weird. And you miss them.

* * *

* * *

Nadia does not meet this news with enthusiasm.

"What do you mean, he's coming back?"

The six of you (including Asra, Muriel, Julian and Portia), are gathered around Nadia's private balcony, in various states in and out of her room. She'd offered her own chambers for the higher probability of privacy, although she'd been very clear about the fact that it was a luxury she couldn't absolutely guarantee. Tea is being served (as is becoming customary for any meetings about what to do with her - well. Dead doesn't quite describe him anymore, does it? - ex-husband).

Muriel makes a sound that could almost be a snort. "He's not exactly gone now."

She frowns, looking out towards the hedge maze. "That's true, unfortunately. Magicians, have you made any progress?"

"I found a ritual that might work," you start haltingly, "if he actually is a ghost. There was another one for a vengeful spirit, possessed, and one to banish the subject of a summoning. There's also another one that works on grudge hauntings. Then there are the regular demon/ghoul/trickster/god banishments, but the requirements for all of them are wildly different."

Asra sighs and closes his eyes, looking thoroughly exhausted. "We have plenty of options. The issue is that we're lacking information. We need to know more about what exactly he is."

"A problem," Nadia says, taking a prim sip of her tea.

"A curse," Julian cuts in darkly. He reaches forwards with one glove hand and grabs a steaming roll, buttered and filled with mango jam. The sweet filling spills out onto the fabric of his fingers, and you make a face as he licks it off with his long tongue.

"So what can we do?" Portia asks. She crosses and uncrosses her arms over her chest, taps her foot restlessly against the carpet.

"We," Asra says, gesturing between himself and you, "will keep doing research. There are a few leads I think I can follow on my own, but until we know something more concrete there isn't a lot we  _can_  do. The rest of you should keep an eye out for Lucio. Let us know if anything . . . changes."

You exchange uneasy glances with your friends. Muriel moves to stand behind you, and you see Asra look up and meet his eyes. Something serious passes between them in the air above your head, almost heavy.

Like a promise.

* * *

You only ever see him leaving.

Just the flash of his scarf as it disappears around a corner, the briefest glimpse of snow-white down. Even Faust has proven remarkably elusive nowadays, revealing less than the diamond-pattern end of a small tail.

You can't fault him for being busy - Lucio has been growing bolder, more aggressive, more of a persistent annoyance if not outright combative. He must be chasing down leads from arcane sources you could never even dream of. You feel a flush of pride, to know him, and a strange, flat hollowness that sits beneath your ribs. You rub at the spot on your chest, and try to focus on your readings.

You miss him.

You tell Muriel this one night, huddled beneath one or two of the many furs draped over his bed. His bare chest is firm and enticingly warm at your back, and your hand is resting on his arm, fingers drawing slow, spiraling lines along his skin, unconsciously tracing the veins of his magic.

Muriel draws in a breath and you can feel his muscles growing taut; a man turning into a mountain. He is so solid, so unmovable, that you feel for a moment like he's no longer there, just a strange statue that you've briefly imagined alive.

You stop your light touch and turn beneath his jaw, trying to catch his eyes. "Muriel?"

The breath he exhales is laboriously slow, and you track the fall of his chest with some unnamed discomfort.

"Muriel?" You repeat, pushing yourself away so you can see the whole of his face. "Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head, shaggy hair falling even further forwards, obscuring the deep, dark green of his eyes. You press one hand against his chest, soothing and searching. "Do you know something?"

He's even shiftier than usual, gaze darting to every far corner to avoid yours. "No," he says.

You frown up at him, reaching, (almost having to get on your knees) so you can push his dark strands away, and he jerks back from your fingers. He's always been a bad liar. "Is it something you can't tell me?"

He doesn't say anything but he looks relieved. So. Yes, then. You sigh and extend your hand towards him. He tenses, and you pull back, settling with your legs crossed and facing him. You want to ask so _badly_ , but he would never give up a secret. You play with the hem of your shirt as you consider."Is Asra travelling, again?"

For some reason, this question comes as a surprise. "No."

"Have you guys been talking?"

A pause. "Yes," he says reluctantly.

You nod, feeling relief and a foreign ache spreading in your core. "That's good."

The two of you sit in an awkward, heavy silence. The fire in the hearth is already running low, sending feeble flickers of orange light dancing on Inanna's fur. She remains turned towards it, graciously giving both of you some privacy as you sort through this moment. You reach forwards - just for his knee, just for his arm, just for whatever extremity you can reach - and he shoots out of the bed, nearly tripping on the mess of furs and sending half of them sprawling to the floor.

"What are you-"

"I'll make some tea."

You swallow your offer to help as he bustles around the corners of his hut, looking far too busy for trying to find the only two cups that he owns. You draw your knees up to your chest, watching.

You don't lift the furs from the floor even when you start to shiver.

* * *

You barely duck out of the way of a low-hanging branch. You raise your hands irritably, swatting at it as you go, and it snaps back to whack you in the back of the head. You rub at the lump, eyeing it distrustfully and then tripping on a root you hadn't seen in the fading afternoon light.

The forest is not your friend, today. You pick your way carefully over the grass, letting your magic probe gently at the path to avoid the more invisible traps. Maybe you're just tired. _Still_  tired. A remarkable feat for someone with so very little to do. At this point you're relying on Asra to turn something up more than you think the library will hold any answers.

For now, you've been speaking to Julian when he has a spare moment, trying to see if his little sojourn into the Hanged Man's realm has yielded any new information, no matter how trivial it seems. Unfortunately, talking to him is a trying exercise in focus; it's easy to get swept away by any of his numerous stories. He is an excellent conversationalist.

But maybe his clumsiness is contagious.

You spot the hut with some relief, chickens milling about outside and clucking with oblivious cheer. You don't see Muriel, but you crouch down to your ankles to say hello to the plump little birds. They gather close, familiar enough to go pecking at your clothes for grain.

"Cheeky," you say, delighted. One of the fattest hens comes right up to you, hopping into your lap and settling herself in.

"I have to go inside," you say, the tension melting off you. She doesn't budge. There's an indignant shuffling as you bring one arm beneath her, lifting her as you stand. She nestles in closer to your side as you walk up to the impressive wooden door. Your knock is far too quiet, but it doesn't matter. He always hears you.

"Hello Muriel!" You beam at him, an imposing figure filling the frame. He steps back to let you in, eyeing the hen in your arms.You hold her up. "Clover wanted to come."

Inanna is resting at the foot of Muriel's bed and you immediately make your way over, dropping the bird directly onto her back. The hen settles in, Inanna barely flinching.

Muriel is facing the hearth, squatting in front of the logs. It's too early in the day for a fire, and too warm, unless he's planning to make tea. You address the broad sweep of the cloak on his back. "You haven't seen him recently, have you?"

He doesn't turn around.

"The Count?" you prompt.

". . . No."

You drop easily onto his bed, Inanna bouncing slightly. She lifts her head and shuffles over so she can drop it in your lap and you scratch almost unconsciously behind her ears. "That's really good," you say, unabashedly relieved. "His behvaiour in the palace has been getting bolder. I'd hate for him to catch you out here on your own."

Inanna grunts beneath your hand.

"The _two_  of you," you amend.

"We can handle Lucio," Muriel says, still crouching awkwardly in front of the hearth. He hasn't made any move to start a fire. You try to peer around his shoulders, but you can't see what he's doing.

"Do you need any help?"

"We've been managing just fine on our own."

"But you don't have to," you say, not bothering to clarify that you're talking about whatever he's doing still crouched on the floor. You want to get up , but Inanna has made herself very comfortable and the laws of the hut are clear.

"We don't need you."

There's no menace in his voice, but you're stung. "I know."

He doesn't say anything else, and you blink rapidly for a moment to keep your tears at bay. When you think you have a strong enough grasp on your faculties, you clear your throat. "I was talking to Julian today."

He grunts and you'll have to take that as encouragement. You have so little else to go on.

"I thought maybe he might have some more insight that he could share. I know he didn't actually remember the night that the Count burned, but I thought that maybe after talking to the Hanged Man. . . "

Silence. He still hasn't turned from his crouched position, and Inanna is only digging her head deeper into your lap.

"Well, not that it matters. I don't think he's got any secrets left to reveal. For most of it I think we wound up talking about his years as a pirate. Did you know he once performed a dry surgery with only a compass and a barrel of whiskey?" You shake your head, amused. "He might be a much better doctor than I gave him credit for. Although . . . I guess he was called to the palace to help with work on the plague. I've just never actually seen him practice medicine . . ."

"You came all the way here to tell me that?" He doesn't turn. Soft tendrils of heat curl their way towards you - so he actually has started a fire.

"No," you say, apprehensive. You can feel yourself stepping closer to a ledge with no idea how you've gotten there. "I came to see you."

"Why?" He sounds genuinely confused, and huffs a little breath like he's exasperated. Are you . . . Are you _wasting_  his time? Not that it looks like he was doing anything particularly important, since it took him nearly half an hour crouching to start a fire.

"I." You don't know what to say. You remove your hand from Inanna's fur and she conscientiously rolls off of you, dislodging Clover who clucks in mad indignation. You ignore the vocal chicken, pulling your hands into your lap. "Are you mad at me?"

" . . . No." It's hardly convincing.

"At least tell me what I did! I can't fix it or apologize or-"

"You didn't do anything," he says. He sighs, but the tension stays in his shoulders. He still won't look at you.

"Then tell me what's wrong! I can try to- Is this about Julian? We don't have to talk about him, we can talk about something else, I-"

"It's not about Julian."

"The Count, then?"

No response. You watch him, still hunched over, folded in on himself so that he looks deceptively small against the growing, flickering flames. You pause, breath catching as your mind recognizes a familiar pattern. There's an awkwardness to his reticence, guilt settling like sediment in the misleading calm of his emotion. "Is this about you . . . and Asr-"

"Don't," he says. His voice is firm and deep and gravelly. "This isn't any of your business."

"Oh,' you say, head jerking back as though you've been physically pushed. He has a right to his privacy, you know that, but. "I'm only trying to help."

"I don't need your help with this. I don't need you to fix me."

"I'm not trying to fix you!" You're shouting; it feels childish against the slow, regular weight of his words. "There's nothing wrong with you Muriel!"

"You promised you wouldn't lie to me." He finally stands, glowering down at you from his significant height. "Or are you just that blind?"

You remember, suddenly, that he was once frightening and feared, and you think you can finally understand why. He is holding your heart in his strong hands and it would take so little effort to crush it between his palms. You watch him, eyes wide and apprehensive, and flinch when he steps forwards. The regret is immediate; devastation washes over his face in waves of sad acceptance.

"Muriel, I'm sorry, I-" You want to reach out to him, to reassure him, to promise that you didn't mean it, but he turns away from you, the silent canvas of his back more solid than any wall. You clutch at your arm instead and bite your lip. It would be unfair of you to cry.

"Right." The words fall flat, dropped before an impassive audience. "I should go."

He flinches suddenly; an unconscious reflex, but he doesn't turn around. It's more of a reaction than you expected, and even this is quickly tamped down. Hope flares bright and brief and dies nearly instantly. He does not want you to stay.

You slide off his bed, giving Clover a reassuring pat on the head as you go. He makes no move to stop you.

You genuinely hadn't expected him to.

The outside air is a shock after the cozy warmth of the hut. You gather the edges of your trailing scarf close to your chest, wrapping your hands in the fabric. It's remarkably cold now, the temperature dropping with the sun. You can still see a faint flickering at your feet; the door is still open, fire going strong. You don't turn around.

 

You see a head of white fluff as you emerge from the woods, only a stone's throw away. You pick up the pace, letting the exercise push warmth back into the numbness of your legs. "Asra!"

"Oh! Hello." He turns at the sound of your voice, surprised to see you but obviously pleased. "Are you two headed back to the shop now?"

"Two?" You whip around, trying to make out any shapes in the darkening gloom. You think you see something disappear behind a tree; just a flash of motion, too far back to make out any distinguishing characteristics. You panic - for just a second - imagine that the Count has come back to the forest, and you take a step forwards, the urge to run back to the hut overwhelming. But Asra wouldn't have been nearly so calm if he'd thought Lucio had been trailing you through the woods. So . . .

"Was Muriel behind me?"

He looks surprised, but covers it with an easy grin. "Was he? I thought I saw something, but I must be mistaken."

"But you-"

"I'm glad you found me," he says, cutting you off. "We can walk back together. I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

You smile at him. "I missed you."

You take one last look over your shoulder, but the trees are quiet and still.

* * *

You see them talking in the corridor.

You'd been on your way to the kitchens, hoping to scrounge up some lunch from the overly generous palace staff, and maybe to run into Portia, see how the bright young servant is doing. You've been spending every few days in the library, trying to force yourself to do research but mainly getting lost in interesting educational tangents. The collection here . . . it rivals anything you've ever known. Even Asra hadn't found quite such interesting tomes in all his travels abroad. _Or_ , you think, with a sudden, dull throb, _maybe he's been bringing them here, to add to the Countess' collection._ Or, perhaps, he used to. There is a whole life, a whole history that you have never known.

You swallow the rising melancholy. The past is past; there's no sense in dwelling on things you cannot change. Besides, you are building a new life now. Happy and full, if currently a little fraught with strange half-goat half-ghosts.

You smile wryly to yourself. Nothing you can't all handle, you're . . . reasonably sure. Maybe after you grab some food (relying again on the grace of your host), you'll see if you can find Asra. It would be helpful to see how he's getting on in his investigation and frankly you'll take any excuse to catch up. The days when your world had been so small - just the two of you, tucked away in your magic shop - seem so far away now. Things are not worse, of course, not by any account. Just . . . different. And if you're being honest a small, greedy part of you misses having him so constant and so close.

You should ask him to have tea with you.

You turn the corner and see the telltale dandelion fluff of hair, and you stop in your tracks. You could never mistake the figure beside him.

Muriel.

They're quiet, but Asra is smiling and Muriel's face is soft. You were going to call out to them but now you're apprehensive. You don't want to intrude. Muriel leans in close, says something that you're too far away to even guess at, and Asra laughs and pats him on the arm. This feels like a private moment. _You_ feel like a trespasser. You turn on your heel and walk back the way you came, trying to keep your steps quiet.

You don't know why you don't want them to know that you were there.

You're picking idly at a warm roll of Prakran spice loaf, lounging on the balcony balustrade. You might have stayed in the kitchen for the company, for the promise of seeing Portia's smiling face, but for some reason you couldn't quite manage an engaging conversation. The sun warms your bent knee, and you lean back against the polished column. Will Portia get mad if you dirty the gleaming white surface? . . . Maybe you should get off.

"On the lookout?" A voice exclaims, too close to your ear. You stumble, and nearly fall headfirst towards the garden. A quick, gloved hand snaps out and grabs your arm, sending you tumbling back into a lean chest. "Careful there!"

"You surprised me!" you say accusingly, slipping awkwardly off the rail in a much less graceful dismount than you'd just been contemplating.

"Sorry, sorry," the man says, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. "I didn't think you'd be so lost in thought. I certainly wasn't making much of a secret of my presence."

"So you _weren't_  trying to sneak up on me?" you ask, feigning suspicion.

The doctor raises a hand to his heart. "I would never! Besides which, I tripped very neatly on that stool back there and the resulting sound was not, ah, quiet."

You grin at him. "You'd make a terrible spy, Julian."

"How dare you! I would be an incredible spy if I were so inclined."

"Well, you're certainly dressed the part," you laugh.

He snaps out the long edges of his jacket, nearly preening. "Thank you. Fashionable _and_  functional, see? I knew I liked you for a reason."

"Oh? It's not because of my cute face and winning personality? Not even . . . this?" You punctuate your sentence with a snap of your fingers, and a small shower of red and purple sparks shoot to just within his eyeline. He starts and backs away, nearly tripping in his haste.

"Ha!" He laughs, only slightly uneasy. "No, no. In fact, I hardly think that's a mark in your favour."

You step up, crowding in his space. Even this close you aren't anywhere near his face. "Are you still so wary of magic? Even after. . ." with a vague gesture at his hands, " everything?"

"Well, that's not to say I'm not grateful, I just. Ah. Things I don't understand make me . . . uneasy."

You shrug. "Fair enough. Although I think with a little study you'd find it's not quite as mysterious as you think it is."

"Well, if I had you for a teacher, I'm sure you'd find I'd be a most engaging student."

You roll your eyes and shove him, laughing. "You're an incorrigible flirt," you say, not quite chastising. "Why don't we go to the Rowdy Raven and get a drink before you waste all that charm on me."

"I assure you, my dear magician," he says, bowing low, "It is not being wasted."

"Flirt all you want, I'm not teaching you for free."

"You actually would?" He asks, turning incredulously to you as you fall into (a somewhat hurried) step beside him. "Teach me?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid we have the matter of my fees to discuss."

"Ah, yes, of course. And what would the price be, for such valuable knowledge?" He asks, voice falling into that overly-serious tone he takes when he's starting to joke around.

"I want you to teach me too."

"Teach you?" He turns to you, surprised into sincerity. "Teach you what?"

"Medicine," you say simply.

"Oh. I. Are you being serious?"

"As sin."

"Well, now, not all sin is inherently serious, I don't think-"

"Julian." You turn to him, try to demonstrate the conviction of your intent. "I'm serious. Please teach me medicine, Doctor."

"I, you. I don't . . ." His voice falters. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please. If you'll have me."

"Well, I . . . But maybe this time . . . Less panic . . . Different this time," He's mumbling to himself, and you grab at his sleeve to get his attention.

"Julian?"

"I. Yes. Yes, why not? I would be delighted to teach you." And he looks it too, face all softly hopeful and shining. It's a good look, for him. You beam, and offer him your hand to shake.

"Excellent! In that case we'd better get down to the Raven double-quick!"

"Oh? And why is that? I'll tell you now, I don't know if that kind of environment is particularly conducive to learning . . ."

"Because," you say, winking, "no deal is sealed until we've toasted to it!"

"Ah yes," he says, catching onto your game. "Of course. Then we had better make haste!"

He speeds up, long legs carrying him far ahead of you, laughing as you curse him genially behind his back. He beats you there by a spare five minutes, waiting for you at every corner with an infuriating smirk on his face. You retaliate by pouring hot sauce into one of his mugs of salty bitters, but. The joke's on you.

It hardly makes any impact on the taste.

You stay there until the wee hours of the morning, listening to Julian spin tales of adventure and intrigue and medical discovery. Bar patrons gather close to the warming effect of his charisma, all eager for a fun tale and a good time.

The two of you are nearly passed out in the uncomfortable wooden booths, half-asleep and riding waning waves of inebriation as the sun begins to poke its searching beams into the sky.

It is the first time in ages that you've felt so relaxed. 

* * *

You stumble back to your shop, trusting your feet to make the familiar journey now that your head can't quite seem to remember it. You consider, briefly, using your keys on the lock, but you know unsteady as you are now, the metal might never quite recover. Instead you slip to the back entrance, hand out and magic ready. The door swings open on silent hinges; the blessing of a little extra magic to lessen the pounding in your head.

If you were more sober, you might wonder if that is how you catch him.

You find Asra in the shop, right as he's about to head out. He's winding his scarf around his head, bag loose in one hand. He looks a little bit surprised to see you, and surprised still to note the way you're cradling your forehead. His lips quirk in unsympathetic amusement.

"Morning," you croak, shuffling in.

"Good morning," he says, (at regular volume, the imp). You wince and he has the good grace to look mildly apologetic.

You gesture to his pack, hand still on your forehead. "Are you going out?"

He shrugs the strap on one shoulder. "I'll be back in a few days."

You start to nod then think better of it. "Don't stay out too late."

He grins, but the edges are soft. "Why? Will you worry?"

"I always do." Your words are too loose, too easy, still flowing as freely as those disgusting drinks Julian had enticed you with. It comes out before you can stop it. "Stay."

"For breakfast? Can you even stomach it right now?"

"Don't go." Something raw and too honest slips out with your words; you can see it in the way he startles. Something shifts in his eyes, and you know if you watch for just a second longer the world will suddenly make sense again.

"I-"

You drop your gaze, the pounding in your head too much to take, so loud and present you can feel it in your hands, in your legs. In your chest. "Sorry, I don't know what I'm saying. I guess I still don't know my limit."

"You should be more careful." When you look up he's smiling, but it seems distant. Gestures to the kettle already sitting on the stove. "Have some tea. It'll help settle your head."

"You be careful too," you say, and you want to go over. To hug him goodbye, like you always do, but. Your steps are stilted and slow and he is already moving to the door.

He waves goodbye to you as he's leaving.

The click of the door closing is quiet. Considerate, as always. You shuffle over to the stove, trying to remember in your haze if it's chamomile or earl grey that you can't stand. You stand over the sink, uncomprehendingly, for a minute. There's a cup inside, half-full of tea.

The kettle is still warm.


	4. I only leave to come back home

You've let the day get away from you. It had been late, to start, even in the morning, the cocoon-ing softness of your bed enticing you to stay warm within your covers for another five minutes, fifteen, a half-hour. Three.

You'd finally dragged yourself into the waking world when your stomach became too vocal for you to ignore. A light breakfast; leftover pumpkin bread and a cup of lapsang souchong. (You find you tend to drink it every meal, when Asra is away. You deplete his stock so quickly when he's gone, but you've never failed to replenish it before he comes home. It seems a petty trick, but you love the way he folds back into his place here with a cup of tea in hand).

It's far too late for you to open the shop, and anyway, you feel disinclined to work. Instead you pack some coin in a worn leather pouch and pull a large scarf/narrow shawl over your shoulders. The season has barely started but it's already beginning to get colder. Maybe you'll head down to the market. See if you can find a new altar cloth; the one in your back room has finally managed a stain you haven't been able to magic out. At the very least, you're going to get more bread.

You aren't paying much attention, fussing with your clothes, one hand on the knob. Some fresh air will do you some good, and if you're honest you're already mainly thinking about what fragrant, warm treats Selasi will have at his stall. So you aren't paying much attention as you slip on your shoes, move to go outside. And you open the door directly into a wall.

You're shocked and disoriented and more than a little suspicious. Magic flares ready at your fingertips as you jump back, wary. The wall shivers and bends, and suddenly a familiar, bashful face has planted itself within your line of sight.

"Muriel!"

He is understandably surprised when you reach up to throw your hands around his neck, dragging him down into a hug. You're confused to see him, especially after . . . last time. But the relief is simply too great to ignore - it's like fresh air filling your lungs after too long holding your breath.

You'd debated going to visit, of course. (To apologize, to beg, to do anything at all instead of letting him stew in his isolation). But. Your fear still lingers, in the back of your mind. You hadn't thought your relationship so fragile until that night.

Still, for him to come here first, to _you_. All the way out in the **city**.

Elation battles with concern as you realize he's made no move to return your embrace. You immediately back away. Of course. He's probably still upset.

But he _came_.

You can't fight the smile that floats to the surface, even if in present circumstances it might not be wholly appropriate. You're just so _happy_  to see him. Your voice is almost shy when you say, "Hi."

"Hi," he responds. He doesn't step forwards, but you back up a little so he doesn't have to crane down to look you in the face. There's a silence as you regard each other, each unsure how to break it.

The small distance finally allows you to see the objects in his hands.

"What are these for?" you ask, your palms ghosting gently over his arm. He doesn't tense anymore (even now), at your unexpected touches, and the realization thrills you with a little brush of triumph and something much more sweet. When he doesn't flinch away you let your hands flutter down; skin to skin. For some reason it is suddenly difficult to look him in the face, so instead you move forwards to admire the forget-me-nots clutched in one large fist.

"I saw them while I was walking," he says, affecting nonchalance, but his face is already flaming bright red. Affection spreads warm and syrupy in your chest, slowing you into inebriation.

"Do you want me to put them in water, for you?" you ask, unable to stop yourself from teasing.

He frowns at you. "It's okay, they won't last all the way back to the forest. You should . . . you should keep them."

You try not to let the force of your smile split your face. The tenderness in his gaze tells you you probably haven't succeeded.

You take the flowers with gentle fingers, sweeping backwards into your shop. He hovers just outside the door frame, watching you fondly as you hum to yourself.

"What are you doing here?" You call to him, trying to project a casual air as you shuffle various trinkets and planters around. You know you have a spare vase somewhere . . . "Did you need something from the Market?"

He makes a noncommittal noise. You turn to him, a tall pitcher in one hand with the flowers artfully displayed. "Do you think this will be okay?"

His smile is soft. "Looks fine."

You beam at him, flicking stray drops of water off your fingers. He can only take so much of your earnest gaze; he drops his eyes but not his smile. _Oh_. The coiling tension in your heart eases. You think he would forgive you, if you asked for it.

You just don't know if you deserve it, yet.

"I was just about to go out. Would you like to join me?" He shuffles on the step. So. Probably not. This strange stilted uncertainty is robbing you of your usual easy conversation. But. You aren't ready to lose him. Not today. Not yet.

You pause, picking awkwardly at your sleeve, considering. "Have you eaten?"

He starts at this, then bends down, just a little, and passes the basket in his other hand over the threshold. You take it with curiosity. It's heavier than expected; you hadn't been prepared for the weight, and you stumble. A large hand comes around to cup your elbow, steadying you, and you flash him a grateful smile. His touch doesn't linger, and if he notices the way you chase his palm with your arm, he doesn't say a word. You fight the urge to bite your lip. "Thanks. What's this?"

"There was some extra," he says. You cock an eyebrow at him, and lift the rough linen to see at least a dozen carefully nestled eggs.

"Oh!" The gesture is so thoughtful, you aren't sure what to do with yourself. A rush of sudden shyness overcomes you, and you turn to bring the eggs inside. Your face is warm. "That's so sweet."

You busy yourself with finding a place for them, too aware of his presence at your back. You're being ridiculous - especially given all the intimacy the two of you have already shared. It's just. So many things hang unresolved between you. Is he still upset? Should you apologize? Or does he want to pretend that day in his hut never happened at all?

Even worse are all the things you can't even begin to guess at - whatever's happening between him and Asra, the reason he vacillates so suddenly between affectionate and cold. Something else is muddying the waters between you and even treading to keep your head up won't protect you from whatever is lurking there, threatening to pull you under. But.

He's never come to visit you at your shop before.

The thought strikes something in you, knocks common sense and etiquette back into your field of vision. You're being so _rude_. You rush back to the door, basket abandoned on the shop counter for the moment. "I'm so sorry!" you exclaim, taking his warm hand in your own. "I'm being so rude! Please, come inside."

He hesitates at the threshold, tugging his hand gently out of your grasp. You follow him almost unconsciously, fingers reaching. "Muriel?"

"I don't. . ." He shuffles awkwardly in place, unable to meet your eyes. A flush climbs up his neck, flooding his cheeks. He gestures to the doorway. "I won't . . . fit."

"Ah." You consider the frame, the way the top of it sits somewhere at his forehead, even as he's crouching down. You tap the wood with a cautious finger. "Well. That . . . shouldn't be a problem?"

Magic warms the wood beneath your skin. Dim white light travels through the knots and whorls of the grain, shooting upwards from your point of contact. The glow hovers at the top, pulsing gently. Nothing else happens.

You frown. "Sorry. I've never really tried anything like this before," you say sheepishly. You press just a little bit more magic into the wood, and . . .

The ceiling shoots up, the wood of the walls elongating and warping nearly a foot. The new height is uneven; the wood is buckling, some beams cracking ominously with loud remonstrations. Something on the second floor clatters out of place and you wince.

"Oh. That doesn't sound good. Uhm. Give me a second, maybe if I-" you put your hands back on the frame, and the entire structure shudders around you. Muriel watches with alarm, grabbing you at the wrist and jerking your hand away.

"Stop!" he says, and he might sound angry if you didn't know better. His touch on your arm is exceedingly gentle. "You're going to get hurt."

The ceiling settles above you, slightly straighter than before. At the very least, the overhead beams are no longer in danger of snapping. "Sorry," you say, sincere and warmed by his concern. "I don't really know what I'm doing. But the structure is secure, now. I promise."

He casts you a dubious look.

You try for a winning smile, twining your fingers in his. "I would never let anything happen to you." You tug him, gently, and he allows himself to be led inside.

His first steps are hesitant, and it occurs to you to wonder if he's ever set foot in the shop before. Certainly he's known about it. Must have known about it, for _years_. He and Asra have been friends for so long. But the ceiling remains sturdy overhead, and he relaxes minutely with each inch he gains.

You settle him into the low divan in your back room. It makes for more of a stool, for him.

"You never answered me, before," you say, moving to find the kettle you keep downstairs. You rifle through your cabinet, pulling out a set of mismatched mugs. "Have you eaten yet?"

"I-" he starts, but he's interrupted by the growling of his stomach.

You laugh. "Okay. I don't have any bread right now, but," and here you reveal his basket with a flourish, embarrassingly excited, "I do have eggs! And I think some celery, parsley, a few tomatoes. Maybe even a chunk of cheese! So . . . how does an omelette sound?"

He shrugs, self-conscious but pleased. "You don't have to go to any trouble for me."

You sweep over, brush a kiss against his hair before you can think better of it, and the quiet intake of air sounds more wondering than offended. "But I want to!" He makes the vague beginnings of a protest, even as his hand wanders, haltingly, to your arm. "Let me. Please?"

He sighs. "Do whatever you want." But he's more flustered than put-upon.

You beam at him, and dip slightly for another kiss, this one feather-light across his cheek. He hesitates for a stretch, and you linger patiently at his side before he reaches up (just) and returns it with a firm, warm kiss of his own. You press the pads of your fingers to your cheek, already sore from smiling, and barely resist the urge to descend on him. His face is turned shyly downwards, and you take in a stuttered breath.

"I." You clear your throat. "I'll grab you some tea."

The soothing mechanics of making it gives you some time to calm the beating of your heart. For some reason everything is different, today. Amplified. You measure out liquid in a tall green mug. Jasmine, of course. You don't actually know that this is his favourite, but he always drinks it all.

And you think it's calming.

You reflexively make yourself a cup of whatever you were drinking that morning, and bring the steaming mugs to the table. Ah. The reading cloth is still on it. You purse your lips, trying to juggle the mugs, when Muriel reaches over and plucks them both from your dithering grasp.

"Careful! It's hot!"

He shrugs easily. "It's okay."

"Thank you." You grab an old tablecloth from the cupboard in the corner, swapping out the dreamy colours of the reading cloth for a jaunty pattern of colourful stripes. Muriel places the mugs on top, very carefully.

You pause, watching the way he handles your ceramics. He treats everything so delicately. His rough fingers trace idly over a chipped handle, and you resist the urge to walk over, curl your fingers over his and tell him . . . Tell him what? _I'm sorry,_  or _Thank you_ , or _You make my days feel softer_. He catches you staring and returns it, puzzled. "What?"

Heat suffuses your face. "I. Nothing. I'll be right back."

You nearly dart up the stairs, tripping over a step at the top that's grown several inches in height. You stumble, and you can immediately hear Muriel standing from his perch. "I'm fine," you call down, trying to sound unaffected despite the strangeness that you feel.

It takes you slightly too long to make the omelettes, your thoughts elsewhere. You burn the cheese twice, creating a crispy coating on one side of the egg that you're going to pretend is deliberate.

Even after you've plated everything, you hesitate at the edge of the steps. You're about to take - well, lunch, if you want to be technical about it - to a man whose relationship with you you still haven't quite defined. In your home. The whole thing feels startlingly domestic.

You take a deep breath, and descend to the first floor.

He looks up when you arrive, corners of his mouth curling lightly. "That was fast."

"No it wasn't." You offer him a fork, then drop into your chair and try to act like you aren't desperately watching him as he takes his first bite. Chews. Swallows.

"It's good," he says simply, and you feel your shoulders drop in relief.

"I'm glad you like it."

He must hear it in your voice, because he looks over at you. Your plate is still untouched. "What is it?"

"I was - I was just nervous, I guess." You trace a line of bright yellow along the tablecloth. "I've never cooked for you before." Your self-consciousness must be contagious, because he suddenly flushes, dropping his eyes back to his plate. You take a sip from your mug, throat suddenly dry.

"What," you start. Clear your throat and try again. "Why did you come down to the city? Did you need something?"

Though it should be impossible, he flushes even darker. "Chicken . . . Chicken feed," he mutters, spearing a soft bite of egg.

You nod. "Right, of course." You try your own bite of omelette, but you're too distracted to taste it. Two can play at nonchalance. "You should have told me! I would have been happy to get it for you."

He shrugs. "I couldn't ask you to do that."

You wave his concerns away, taking a long sip of your tea. "It's okay. I'd take any excuse to go visit you. Besides, you know I miss your chickens."

"They're not _mine_." He doesn't smile, not exactly, but. His hand is prostrate on the table and he doesn't move it when you reach over, grasp it so you can rub your thumb over his knuckles. You tug it and he lets you, uncomprehending until you pull it against your mouth so you can brush a kiss to his palm.

The flustered expression he makes casts a spark that ignites something warm and mischievous in your chest. You smile against his skin.

His plate is clean already, even though you're only halfway through yours. You tug lightly on the tablecloth, pulling all the dishes off to one side.

"What-"

The word dies in his throat as you step towards him, using your joined hands to draw you together. He swallows, watching you carefully. You move your free hand to the side of his face, telegraphing your movements so he can stop you, if he wants.

He doesn't.

You lean down (not far), and.

Kiss him.

He tastes a little bit like the lunch you've shared but mostly like jasmine tea and fresh pine. You can only hope you taste half as nice.

You sigh into his mouth, fingers carding carefully through the tangled strands at his nape. The texture is smoother than you'd expected, but just as thick. He smells like myrrh and amber. You're untangling knots at his base when you suddenly think, (and the thought is so salacious you almost bite his tongue), he might let you brush his hair. Maybe he'll even let you _wash_  it. 

Your kiss is growing breathless, and you pull back with a gasp. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth kiss-bruised and wet. You scratch lightly at the base of his skull just to watch his eyelids flutter. You like this, of course. All the physical aspects of . . . whatever it is you two are doing. It's nice. It's _fun_. And goodness, isn't it lovely to watch him while you work.

But you want more.

Sitting in his lap, in the middle of the backroom of your shop, dishes still piled on the table behind you. It speaks to a different kind of intimacy. You can imagine, in perfect technicolour, the way his face would look in the slanting morning light that drifts through the curtains by your bed. Navigating in your tiny kitchen while you cook. Reading curled up in his furs, while he whittles by the fire.

You press your fingers flat against his skin, curl them down, tracing the rough line of his spine.

"Do you want to see upstairs?"

He was flushed before but now he's red, and still as stone. You can see it coming now; the telltale hunching of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. Worry drops the bottom from your core, and you're suddenly glad you didn't have much of an appetite. You pull your fingers back, trying to pull your mistakes back with it.

You aren't sure what line you've crossed but you're desperate to step carefully back into familiar territory. "Muriel, I-"

He pulls you gently off his lap, and you can see the self-control it takes. Every fibre of him is screaming out and desperate to escape. "Muriel, what-"

Once you've been successfully relocated, he stands up from the table, turns to the door, and leaves. You bolt to your feet, panic drumming in your chest. Was that too much? Too soon? You didnt - you only wanted . . .

You knock your empty chair to the ground as you careen around it, trying to catch him before he gets too far away.

You should know better than that.

You can see him down the street. He isn't running, exactly, but his stride is swift and purposeful and so, so _long_. You'll never be able to catch up with him, not at this distance.

Not that it matters.

You haphazardly wind your scarf around your shoulders, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. Why are you so  _bad_ at this? Half of it trails on the ground but you can't be bothered to care, already moving through the doorway, hand on the knob to slam it behind you.

"Muriel, wait, I-" you collide with a lean chest, encased in double-breasted metal buttons, and you bounce off, rubbing at your nose. "Sorry, I didn't see you!"

You make to dash off, but a cold hand grabs your wrist. You're jerked backwards into a leather-clad arm.

"Julian?"

You move to make your excuses ("Sorry, I can't stop to chat, I'm a little busy at the moment, Let's get a drink later") when you catch sight of his face. His mouth is set in a grim line, eyes serious. You immediately stop your struggle, settling against the still warped wall of your shop.

There is a foot of space between your door and the top of the door frame.

"Julian?" He drops your arm, and you rub unconsciously at your wrist. "What is it?"

When he speaks, he seems infinitely tired; a man who cannot get a good night's rest no matter how many years he sleeps. Pity and concern rise in your breast: an immediate empathetic response. But all your remedies and good advice are washed away by his words.

"It's about the Count."

* * *

 

The shop is empty, these days. With nothing better to do you're stuck at home, tending to the store and tidying up. With Asra gone on his trip the rooms are too wide; a space you once considered cozy become vast. Your curse as you trip on the extended top step (that you still haven't fixed) echoes too loud and too long.

You're lonely.

You think, once, or twice, or obsessively over the course of three days, about visiting Muriel in the forest. But the shadow of his last disastrous visit hangs over your head. (Sometimes in the literal scattering of dried herbs from too far overhead, or in the wind that trespassed through that gap in your door frame until you'd stretched your door accordingly). You can't be confident that he would like you visiting, and so. You don't.

Instead you putter around in your shop (closed again today), sighing to yourself as you organize glasses of crystals by spectrum and bemoan your confinement. Not that you _couldn't_  leave, technically. Your hands still against a low wooden shelf, spells for dust and polish evaporating from your fingers. You can't see the palace from your ground floor window, but you can hear the distant sounds of the market, see the spinning, diaphanous afternoon light shattered through Asra's hanging glass charms.

It's too beautiful outside for anything to feel sinister.

You turn, letting one hand drift idly along the glass countertop, a familiar tingle in your fingertips preventing prints from forming. You can still see the Doctor's face, as he'd all but fallen into your doorway. Pale and drawn and undisguisedly worried. His melodramatic warning trails just behind you these days, pushed to the fringes of your conscious concern as you worry instead over your absent master and friend.

(So what if some servants saw all your palace garments shredded in Lucio's old wing? That's hardly conclusive proof of anything more than a tantrum. He probably just didn't have the courage to try with anything of Nadia's.

In fact, imagining his ugly goat face staring mulishly at the door to Nadia's closets, weighing the reward of attention against her unbridled fury and finding himself shying away? Is actually cheering you up).

But Julian had elicited a promise from you to stay indoors until he'd done some "sleuthing", finally winning your word with the sheer force of his sincerity. Well, you can't say it isn't a little bit nice to be worried over, but.

You're. So. So. . . . _S_ _omething._

It's not that you feel uneasy here alone. (The Arcana know it's hardly your first time on your own). But. It's like a constant itch just under your skin that you cannot manage to alleviate, no matter how hard you scratch. A slight, off-kilter, misstep that pitches your balance just so that you can't get it back.

God, you miss him.

And how _desperately_ you'd like to talk.

You'd tried it, of course. (In between your near-constant internal debating). A shallow pool of water, just like he'd taught you. But it's as though all your attempts at communication are being pressed through a filter; you can only ever catch glimpses of him, just out of reach. No matter how loudly or how often you call, he never hears you.

The attempts always leave you with your heart overturned; some slow passing terror that renders you temporarily catatonic. You _know_  he's really there when you scry, and it makes the panic all the more gripping. Why can't you reach him, anymore?

After every failed attempt, you find your hands hovering just over the cards, the voices whispers too low to understand. They have so much to say to you, you can _feel_  it. The tug is insistent, like wiry branches catching at your clothes. Not difficult to shake off, but impossible not to notice.

It is the first time you have ever been afraid of what they might have to tell you.

You are standing at the glass counter, deck fanned across the glass, arms hanging limply at your sides, when the door opens and one of the two men most prominently featured in your thoughts walks in.

"Asra!"

The relief is so immediate you don't even think. You nearly stumble as you rush past the case, throwing yourself around his shoulders, and hugging him tight against your chest. To have him here lifts a startling weight and you can finally breathe again. It's almost enough to let you ignore the way his hands flutter, falter, before they come up to return your embrace.

He has never been hesitant with you before.

"How was your trip?" you beam at him, one hand still curled around his neck. You don't fully disentangle, even as you help him out of his travelling cloak. "I missed you."

He relaxes at your touch, at your gentle fussing, your benevolent concern. (But not _enough_ , not like he used to). He allows you to lead him by the hand, past the half-swept floor and the stack of unorganized texts, past the fanned out cards. He cocks an eyebrow at the arrangement but doesn't say a word as you push him softly into a low seat, already considering what kind of tea would be most reinvigorating after his journey.

Reluctance must roll off you in waves; your hand remains firm against the warm skin at his nape, even as you glance at the kettle on the stove. Everything about him softens, tension untangling from his posture and his touch as he tugs you close. "I won't disappear if you let me go for five minutes."

You step in between his legs, bend down and use your free hand to brush stray curls out of his face. Just an inch lower and you'd be in his lap. You peer into his eyes and his gaze is steady as it's always been. Sincere and fathomless. One of his hands still sits at your waist, thumb running soothing circles over the thin fabric. There's a minute expression in his other arm, fleeting like a spasm, and then Faust pokes her head out of the back of his shirt and slithers over his shoulder.

_Missed Friend!_

You startle back, and break into an easy smile. "I missed you too, Faust."

She stretches slightly out towards you, but. Your hands are still on him, anchoring yourself to his physical presence.

You can't let go.

He must see it - the slightly frantic look in your eyes, the frazzled edges of your aura. His gaze softens somehow further, melting like butter against the force of the sun. "You don't have to," he says, quietly, like your thoughts were somehow spoken without your knowledge.

You feign ignorance. "Don't have to what?"

But his eyes are too clear, too piercing. You think, suddenly, that the protection of his wayward bangs might have saved you more than once. You are stripped to parts you don't even fully understand, every item carefully catalogued and available for his scrutiny. His thumb stills, resting just under the ruched fabric of your hem against your skin.

"You don't have to let go."

His words are too sincere - they hide a wealth of other shadows: happiness and sadness and something warm and vast. You try for levity even as you lower yourself down into a desperate embrace, heads pressed so close together his hair is tickling your cheek. "It's going to make walking upstairs pretty difficult."

He laughs; you can feel the soft puff of it against your hair. "Then I guess we'll just have to stay down here." His free hand rubs careful circles on your back as he hums, thoughtful. "Is everything okay?"

A pause, as you settle down fully. "Are _you_  okay?"

You exhale, suddenly exhausted. You can feel the shudder of it as he tries not to let it affect him. "You disappeared."

"I was just on a short journey. I've been on those before."

You close your eyes, rest your cheek on his shoulder and breathe in the familiar scent of him: sunshine and patchouli and a little bit of sweat. "That's not what I mean. I tried to call you and . . . it was like you were gone. There but . . . not." You turn into his skin and sigh. "Unreachable."

"But I'm back. You don't need to worry." He shifts, slightly, and if his arms grow a little looser around you you pretend not to notice. "Besides, you'd be fine on your own. You've been doing well so far. The shop looks . . . almost clean."

You shake your head against him. "No. If you really disappeared, I don't think I'd ever be fine again."

His breath catches softly, you can _feel_ it, and he whispers your name like an admonishment. "Don't say that. Your world is so much bigger than just me."

"That's not the point." You play with the edges of his choker, one finger tracing the delicate lines in the gold. You need something to focus on, something to help ground you while you collect your scattered thoughts. "It's like . . . I can't even describe your importance in it. I would do anything for you."

"I would never ask you for anything."

"That's what I'm saying, you wouldn't ever have to. I would give it to you." You turn into his shoulder, press the words against him. "Anything you needed. Anything you _want_."

His arms tighten around you so suddenly the air leaves you in a rush. He's almost crushing you against his chest, pressed so close and so wretchedly that you can't breathe, and then. You move your head towards him, nearly gasping, "Asra?"

He swallows, face flushing. He looks . . . caught. Almost. . . . Almost _guilty_. He releases you like he's been burnt, settling back on his seat and avoiding your gaze.

You straighten up, pressing close so you can peer into his face, concern rearing sudden and strong. "Asra, what's wrong? What is it?"

"I. I don't. . . I couldn't ever-"

He's floundering. He has always seemed so sure to you, but he can't quite seem to catch hold of his footing. His eyes are averted, face as clouded as the emotion bleeding from his aura. You can feel it - you can _always_  feel it - twining with your own, searching for purchase against the familiarity of your magic, of your presence.

"Asra?" You coax it gently. It takes barely any effort at all - almost like it was already reaching, ready to grab hold. "What do you want?"

Your hand twines with his, and you lay his palm flat against the beating of your heart. He stiffens then relaxes all at once, sigh rueful. His smile falls back into easy, familiar. But for some reason the sight of it casts a light shadow. "I want you to be happy."

 _Happiness_ , you think, turning the word over in your mind like you can tease new meaning from its shape. _Aren't I already happy?_  And . . . don't you want that for him too?

"Asra," you start. Your words are whisper-quiet, and you lean towards him, forehead brushing his. You can sense something fragile holding in the air between you - he doesn't move away but he stiffens and you know, without basis, that whatever you do next you will never be able to undo.

A loud, gurgling rumble erupts between you, shocking as a splash of water. You jolt upright and Asra flushes, averting his gaze. "Sorry. I haven't had a chance to eat, yet."

The scene is so familiar you're dropped unceremoniously back into your old routine. You sit back and smile, whatever strange spell of the universe you'd been beholden to suddenly broken. "Oh no! Did you hurry home too fast because you _missssed_  me?" you tease, in sing-songy mirth.

He feigns shock. "How did you guess?", before his eyes go sly. "Ah. You've been practicing your telepathy without me."

"Nothing gets past you, does it master?"

He flinches; it's too clear, he doesn't even try to hide it. "Please don't call me that, anymore."

You frown. "Oh, sorry. Is it weird? Julian seemed to think it was a little weird."

"Julian?" he almost laughs, huffing. "Well, I'm sure Ilya thought _something_  about it, but I don't know if weird was the word." He shakes his head. "No, I just. I never liked being called your master. I'm not."

"But . . . you taught me everything. _Everything_. I wouldn't even be a person without you."

"That's not-" he starts, and it's almost like you can see his heart breaking. He quiets, expression destroyed, fist clenched tight over your chest. Your heart wails in sympathy. Both hands take his, gently prying his fingers open, rubbing soothing circles into his palm.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. Desperation pushes words out of your mouth - anything to soothe that expression on his face. Anything to make him better. _Whole._ "I promise I won't call you that, anymore, okay? Just. Just Asra, from now on. I _promise_."

His smile is strained when he says thank you.

You sit there like that, the two of you, in devastated silence as the light gets low. You'd been famished, earlier, but it appears that neither of you are actually very hungry after all.

* * *

"You aren't sleeping." You don't turn over, eyes still closed, but you know. He could never be so still if he was genuinely unconscious - he cuddles and kicks and you have the bruises to prove it (always meticulously magicked away at the very first sign, before he'd have even the splotchy inkling of a clue).

"Neither are you," he says softly, redundantly, to the ceiling.

You twist towards him, propping one hand beneath your cheek so you can look down at his face. His eyes are unfocused, staring unseeingly upwards. The fatigue of the last few hours show prominently in the small lines there, worried into existence. You reach your hand out, cup his cheek, and he turns instinctively into your touch.

He still doesn't look at you.

You watch him for another moment more, trace the tension in his face, the uneasy posture of his head. He looks uncomfortably troubled.

"I'm hungry."

"What?" That finally elicits some reaction from him, startled by the abruptness of your comment. You pat him amicably on the cheek, then move to sit up.

"I'm hungry. We never ate, earlier, and since we're both up anyway I thought I might as well make something." You stretch, throwing the blankets off your bare legs as you stand. "I was thinking of some rice and . . . soup, maybe? I know I have some leftover stock somewhere. . ."

He's upright now, watching you as you move lazily towards the kitchen. The look on his face is soft; contemplative. He swings out of bed. "Soup sounds perfect. In fact," he says, shuffling over, "I brought back some eel from Arquanti."

"Oooh, somebody's _favourite_ ," you say, smiling conspiratorially.

He is surprised for all of a half-second, but you notice the way it travels, bright and happy, across his face. "Of course you would know. I should have guessed."

You bend down to your cupboard, freeing pots with cacophonous disregard from the messy pile in the dark. "Are you going to bring him some tomorrow? He'll be so pleased."

His grin goes sly. "Why don't you bring them? I'm sure you'd welcome the . . . diversion."

"I'm not going to bring Muriel your gift, Asra, that's stupid," you say, rolling your eyes. You concentrate carefully on the pot, trying to fill it with liquid. The level rises in stops and starts; you still don't have his affinity for water magic. He watches with amusement, taking no pity.

"Oh? I thought you'd welcome any excuse to go see him," he says knowingly.

You roll your eyes. "I don't need an excuse. I mean . . . usually."

He pauses, bent over his unpacked knapsack on the floor, and when you turn you get a first-rate view of the little snakes printed on his shorts. You'd bought him the undergarments as a joke, one year, but. He'd liked them far too much. His collection spans seven different colours and three different patterns, at last count.

He's still bent over when he asks, "Are . . . you and Muriel . . . okay?"

There's a question hiding there, within the question. One that you aren't sure how to answer. Are you and Muriel. . . Well. It doesn't matter. The answer to both is the same. "I don't know."

He hums thoughtfully, emerging with a bundle wrapped in wax paper held in one hand. He doesn't say a word as he casually pushes you aside, making room at your small kitchen counter for his package and a well-used cutting board. You concede the space without thinking, moving to pull the rice from your cupboard.

For a moment the domestic sounds of cutting and washing fill the small space. Asra hunches over the eels as you rinse the rice out, swirling hypnotically in a large earthen bowl. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

You look over at him. His fingers are deft and fine, filleting the eels open in long, precise movements. You are lost watching the motions. His hands are so certain, everything he does so . . . _beautiful_. He pauses at your silence, catching your stare. You blink and look down. "I think . . . we're fighting."

"Oh." He takes a deep breath, and you can hear him forcing control into every casual word. "About what?"

You flinch, and furrow your brow at the rice. "I'm not . . . I don't know. Maybe it's me." You consider the way he'd drawn away at your last encounter, and horror draws anew on your face. You drop the bowl into the sink. Words rush out in a torrent - you've been dying to talk to him for _so long_ , and now that he's finally _home_. . . "Maybe he doesn't like me like that, and I'm just pushing my feelings onto him. I mean, he's never actually _said_  that he likes me. And he's, he's humoring me, because he's so nice, and he doesn't know how to let me down, exactly, and. And I mean, if he doesn't like me, that's fine!" Your voice cracks unconvincingly and you clear your throat. "I mean, it's not fantastic, but I would understand. I just. I'd at least like to be friends with him."

Asra lets out a long, slow breath. Something catches in his throat but when you look over, his face is carefully calm, lightly compassionate. He drops the eel meat in a pan, onions already peeled and on hand. "Have you told him?"

"Have I . . . what?"

"Have you told him everything you've been thinking?" he asks. His tone is mildly teasing. "Short of reading his mind, if you want to know how he feels I think it might help to ask him."

"Oh. I . . . ," you trail off. "No."

He smiles at you, hands deftly chopping. "I have some new items to add to our stock, tomorrow, so I was going to do inventory. No need to open up the shop," he says meaningfully.

"Thanks, Asra," you say. You try for a smile but you can't help worrying your bottom lip. You know it will be a huge relief to finally have everything out in the open but. You can't help being nervous.

Asra bumps his hip against yours right as you make to pick up the bowl again, and the whole thing crashes back into the sink. He laughs against your indignant protest. "For what it's worth, I don't think you have anything to worry about. How could he help liking you?"

Your chest flushes warm, and you duck your face. God, is this what Muriel feels like when you say things like that? Asra turns to drop the vegetables into the broth and you follow, sneaking a warm kiss against his cheek. "Thank you." You pull back as he laughs. "I can see why Muriel loves you so much. You're a good friend, Asra."

He only smiles cryptically at you, pulling the pan onto the heat. You snake an arm around his bare waist (still warm from the lingering heat of the bed) and he stills as you pop open a side cabinet. He cocks an eyebrow when he sees the contents. "That's a fine Prakran vintage. Nadia has excellent taste."

You nod. "A generous gift for services rendered."

"'Services rendered'?" He pops open the cork and lets the smell waft. He makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. "So, you finally caught the Count's elusive killer?"

You snort. "I'm afraid not, unless you count Julian who most certainly did **not** do it despite what he's said." Asra does not meet this revelation with any measure of surprise. "No, it's for helping her build a bonfire out of some of Lucio's old portraits."

"Ha!" The laugh is so unexpected he spills a splash of wine down the side of the pan, and the flames burst with sudden height. You fling a hand out, damping the heat, trying to keep the danger from his bare skin. "Sorry."

"Don't worry, that's about how I felt too."

"And how did the . . . Count take it?"

You smirk. "He was furious. We could hear wailing coming from his wing for the entire night."

"He always was awfully . . . melodramatic."

You shrug. "I don't know why. He'd already torn the eyes out of most of the paintings anyway. If anything, they looked marked for the trash."

"Ah well," Asra muses. "Better late than never to develop good taste."

The smell of cooking eel rises delicious from the pan, and your stomach gurgles loudly. He laughs as you grumble, setting the rice to cook. "Like you aren't starving, too."

He laughs again when you try to bump him back, lifting the pan to keep the wine from sloshing over the sides. He pushes the cutting board toward you with his free hand, and gestures to some of the herbs hung over the window. "You know what to do. And see if you can find any fennel."

"Yes, chef," you say, rolling your eyes fondly. You reach up and pluck herbs, choppping fine pieces with less skill and grace than he could do without looking.

He reaches over to a drawer and you back away, still cutting as he pulls out a ladle. You pass behind him and pour the herbs into the pot, he removes the pan and begins to drain the excess fluids. He pops the meat on a plate and you duck beneath his arms. It's a dance that you've done a million times; pressed into close proximity in the small spaces above your shop. But something about it warms you from the outside in, working its way through the stiffness of your muscles to your uneasy core.

"It's almost done," he says, stirring lazily. You watch him as you wash. The steam from the soup curls upwards, shifting the soft bangs of his hair and making his face flush. His smile is soft and easy and you are struck, suddenly, by how stunning he really is.

He _looks_ happy.

He glances up at you and it is the second time tonight you've been caught. You return his gaze with a smile that's a little bit too sharp, and say, "I think the rice is finished."

"Perfect," he says seriously. "If we go any longer without eating I think I might pass out."

You set heaps of fluffy rice in bowls as Asra settles the salamander, turning the heat down low, and place the stoneware carefully on the table behind you. When you turn he's ladling some dark eel soup into a bowl for you, and you accept the warmth gratefully, the steam decadently fragrant with spices.

It smells like warmth and cloves and home.

"I love you," you say, breathing deeply, and you say it easily, like following a motion you have practiced all your life.

Asra laughs. "Me, or the soup?"

You don't even think about it. "You." Then you pause for a moment, pretend to consider, head tilted. "Both."

Asra laughs but otherwise stills, his clever, careful fingers freezing in the middle of their task. He's started on the garnish (if nothing else, he always takes his food seriously). The green onions on the cutting board are only halfway done.

You hum thoughtfully in the face of his silence, abandoning your bowl so you can walk over to him. "Have I not told you yet?" You try to bend down towards him so you can see his face, half-teasing and wholly sincere. The words roll off your lips naturally, like a mantra you've held close to your heart and in your mind for as long as you can remember. "I love you, Asra."

His eyes are focused but very far away. He picks up the knife again, letting his face fall back into a familiar grin. "Thanks. I love you too." The words are forcefully careless, but when he turns to you you can feel thin tendrils of emotion coiling outwards, too powerful for him to reign in. His sincerity is a whisper that bleeds; you can almost see the gentle purple of it as you feel it soak into your fingers.

Your breath catches in your throat. "Oh."

"Is that a surprise?" His expression is arranged to be wry, but you can still sense him in the air around you. He is wistful. He is resigned. He is so, undeniably, _happy_ , to say it. Your smile spreads slow and wide, and you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, impeding his progress with the knife. He laughs but doesn't try to maneuver you away.

"I guess it's not."

* * *

You pull the hood of your cloak up further, trying to keep most of the rain out of your eyes. Visibility will improve once you hit the boundary of the forest - the tall canopies overhead provide excellent cover.

You're going to see him after all.

 _It's only fair_ , you think to yourself. Muriel made the effort to come see you after you'd run away. Now it's simply your turn. (Besides which, Asra had made some very compelling arguments, coupled with an impressively disappointed pressing of his lips that made you feel every inch the child you were being. You _want_  this. You should be much more eager to fight for it).

Water washes down your face and you duck your head, trying to manouever around the deeper puddles. Your boots have been charmed against soaking, but you can't help the instinctive need to pick your way.

Which is probably why you walk head-first into the forest.

"Ouch!" You bounce off, clutching your head. Right. The trees. One hand traces the round bark as you swing around, stepping carefully on the roots to keep from sinking in the mud. Okay, so the forest isn't _that_  much better.

You draw your cloak tighter. You could, technically, create a little magic umbrella of sorts, to keep the rain at bay. But, to be honest, you really couldn't be bothered. It feels like a waste of magic what with certain elements wandering around, and (if you would like to go for the gold in the Olympics of truth), you're hoping that the sight of you, shivering and damp, will entice Muriel to welcome you into his hut.

Not that you think he'd turn you away, necessarily. But.

A little insurance doesn't hurt.

The rain offers loud ambiance the entire way. You're focused mainly on your feet, arms up and drifting across trunks to prevent a repeat of the first embarrassing incident. You've managed to avoid it so far, but the hem of your clothes are starting to droop, getting heavy with mud and rain. At this rate you'll be waddling with your clothes around your ankles by the time you arrive.

Maybe you should have enchanted those too.

You're a little lost in your pointless rumination, so it's no surprise when you miss your footing on the next root, slipping neatly backward towards the waiting embrace of the cold, wet ground. You reach a hand upwards, trying to catch yourself on a slick branch, when you find yourself hitting something smooth and damp. And warm.

You turn into a bare chest, water dripping enticingly down well-cut planes, and beam. "Muriel! What are you doing out here?"

" . . . I live here," he says, voice low and gruff. He frowns down at your face, hair dripping water into his eyes.

You reach towards him and he bends down unconsciously, lowering himself so you can push his soaking hair out of his face. "Out here? In the rain?" you ask, but your voice is warm.

He huffs; a sound of familiar exasperation that doesn't quite hide his affection. It banishes the chill as effectively as fire.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you say, taking the hand he offers you as you pick your way towards his hut. "Can I hug you?"

"I. You." He looks away, expression unsure. "Come inside. You're cold."

". . . Thanks."

You follow him into the cozy room, immediately soothed by the low orange flicker of flames, of Inanna's gentle snores at the hearth, by the tall pile of furs thrown haphazardly on his bed. He sees the way your eyes linger and he walks silently over, pulling the thickest one from someplace in the middle. You make to accept it, but water drips from your hands - you're making a puddle in the middle of his floor. "Oh. Sorry."

You drop your bag on a chair, and immediately pull off your cloak, which Muriel takes and hangs by the hearth to dry. The relief of the weight is shocking; it was so wet it was nearly double the usual burden. You roll out your shoulders as you take stock of your remaining clothes.

The cloak bore the brunt of the weather for you, but. Your clothes are still remarkably wet. It was so windy - all that water blowing into your face, down your neck. You have a wide, wet stain at the front of your shirt that's plastered the fabric directly to your chest. It's unbelievably uncomfortable.

You strip without a second thought, consider wringing out the worst of the damp (but you've already made his floor so wet), and settle for draping your clothes on the back of a chair. Muriel colours beautifully when he turns back around, striding over and draping the discarded fur roughly around your shoulders.

"Thanks," you say, drawing it close against your skin. Your hair is still dripping into the pelt, but.

Something dry and slightly musty drops onto your head, pressure moving it gently from side to side. He's rubbing knots into your hair and you couldn't care less.

When he pulls the towel off you reach out and grab the corner. "Wait."

"Sorry." His brow furrows. "Are you still wet?"

"No, I." You shake your head. "Let me do you."

The corner of his mouth quirks. "You can't reach."

"Then will you help me?"

He regards you silently for a breath. And then two. Three. You wait patiently, towel clutched carelessly in one fist. He shrugs without looking at you and drops to the floor.

You shuffle up behind him, warming the towel in your hands and pushing the worst of the dampness out before dropping the whole thing on his head. He makes a low grunt of surprise as it blocks out his vision, even though he must have expected it.

Your hands make slow, gentle strokes, magic discreetly warming your palms. Something that might be a groan hums out from beneath the fabric.

"I'm sorry."

He tenses; an automatic reflex of surprise. When he speaks, he sounds confused. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

You drag the towel a little lower, patting gently. "For whatever I did that made you so upset last time, when you came to the shop." There's no response. "And I'm sorry for not knowing what I did. I'm trying my best, I promise, but I think I need a little help." He shifts beneath you, and you draw your hands lower, wrapping the loose ends of his hair in the fabric and pressing. "Please tell me what it was, and I won't ever do it again."

He sighs, pulling the towel backwards to drape around his shoulders and turning to face you. His chest is still glistening slightly, drying rapidly against the heat of the fire, and you resist the urge to grab the towel and pass it over the impressive muscle. You bite your lip, trying to focus enough to find his eyes.

"It's not your fault."

The look you level at him must be appropriately dubious, because he pushes his hair out of his face and tries again. "I mean it, you didn't do anything. I _wanted_  -" He stops abruptly, turning red as a burn, and you have the thrilling suspicion that he might have been as . . . eager as you. You do your best to temper the flaring heat in your eyes, even if you can't quite swallow your smile. You want him to talk to you, first and foremost, and he might not do that if you're looking at him like you want to devour him whole.

He clears his throat, studiously avoiding your gaze. "What I mean is," and here he furrows his brows, searching for the words, biting out the syllables, "I just. Remembered. Something."

As far as explanations go, it's hardly convincing. "Is it something. . . you can't tell me?"

He doesn't respond, but the guilt on his face speaks volumes. Tension lines his shoulders, burrows in his jaw. You sigh. "Okay."

It's a relief he clearly wasn't expecting. His eyes go wide as he whips his face in your direction, searching you for any sign of . . . of what? Dishonesty? Resentment? You soften at his trepidation, at his clear and painful apprehension, and reach over, taking one of his large hands in both of your own. You rub circles against the back of his palm, trying to work soothing into your touch.

"I won't make you tell me something you really don't want to," you say quietly. His hand is relaxing by increments - slow as seeping sap. "I would never want to force you to do _anything_ you didn't want to do. I like you, Muriel." It's not the first time you've said it, but the confession is still as delicate and raw as it was before. A piece of yourself that you've released unprotected to the world, waiting to see how much of it survives. "I want you to trust me."

He pulls his hand from yours and you immediately still, breath caught. You don't follow, gaze dropping to the floor.

Something warm and rough brushes against your cheek and you startle upright. Deep green catches you in a tender trap; his eyes are impossibly soft in the flickering light. He draws your hair off your face, but doesn't drop his hand. "I do."

". . . Muriel?"

"I do trust you."

Your breath leaves you in a rush. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Then, can you promise me something?"

He waits patiently, too cautious to offer empty words. You like that about him too, you think. He is honest to a fault, and almost absurdly sincere. "Will you tell me if I do something you don't like? You don't have to tell me why, just. Tell me what it is, whatever it is, _anything_ , and I'll stop doing it." You take a breath, words rolling together, and say, "Forever."

A beat, and then. He _snorts_. The cousin of an actual laugh; his lips are quirking and elation rises too quick, like bubbles in your chest. "You don't have to be so dramatic." He pauses, and his smile is a little bit shy. Happy. "But. Thanks."

Your smile has gone a bit goofy, but you can't help it. "Anytime."

Unfortunately, the warmth of your good mood isn't quite enough to keep the chill at bay. You shiver, just a little, and he frowns. "Are you still cold?"

"Only a little," you admit. "I should be better in no time at all." The full-body shudder that punctuates your declaration slightly undercuts your credibility. He watches you levelly, before turning his face solidly towards the wall, eyes roaming to the ceiling. "Uh."

"Come here," he says. He still won't look at you, but he holds his arms up invitingly. A sharp jolt of excitement tingles at your extremities. Is he saying what you think he's saying? You crawl towards him, fur draped around your shoulders, trailing across the ground.

"Am I getting a hug after all?" You mean for it to come across as teasing, but your tone is embarrassingly eager. You flush, even as you settle yourself in his lap. His arms circle you, firm and warm and still just a little slick.

"Just gonna help you warm up," he says gruffly. The flush on his face betrays him.

You're so close - neatly enveloped by the warm, earthy scent of him, muddled down with the lingering whisper of petrichor. You free an arm from the prison of the fur and run your hand up his chest, magic spreading from your palm. He all but melts at the touch.

"Why don't I return the favour?"

"I. You don't. Have to," he says, but his arms tighten around you.

You run your fingers lightly across his collarbone, and water steams gently dry. "Do you want me to stop?"

He falters, before turning to meet you, face aflame and expression just as heated.

"No."


	5. The shape of everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there is a little bit of violence. It's a fight.

You'd been spending the last few days in the library in the wake of some unwelcome revelations. Apparently, the Count has been frequenting the fields outside Vesuvia, and more worrying yet, some eyewitnesses (mainly Muriel and once Portia, on an errand for the Countess) have reported seeing his dim white figure stalking through the tall grass, holding something that looks alarmingly like a still-beating heart.

Asra had taken the news with a terrible calm that even now makes you feel uneasy, telling you he would be going away again for a few days to try and find some answers. He'd promised to return by week's end, (a more concrete date than you'd ever before been given), so you let him go with nearly half your usual fuss and only two charms you'd made out of anxiety-ridden worry.

Desperate to be useful and otherwise having very little outlet for your manic energy, you had holed up in the quiet library, frantically trying to find anything even tangentially related, until Portia had found you passed out halfway over the second floor railing. She'd ushered you outside with food, extracting a clear agreement to relax through the use of some particularly impressive double-talking.

You'd decided you might wander, possibly pass through the fountain to see if you could determine Asra's location through some still-amateur scrying, when you'd run into a familiar figure just inside the garden walls.

 

Now the sunlight slants down towards you through a canopy of flowered branches. You lift your hand to shield your eyes and just manage to catch the edge of Muriel's soft smile, finally visible against the light. You reach your other hand up and trace the rugged line of his jaw, trying to chase the shadow of the curve at his lip. He huffs a half-laugh, and you can feel it in the jolt of his legs beneath your head.

He drops the flower crown he's been working on and it lands perfectly centered on you, the front tipped so far forwards the petals are nearly brushing your eyelashes. 

"Muriel, it's beautiful!" you say, fingering the silk edge of a gardenia.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. He's looking down at you, only a little flushed and gaze unspeakably tender. You trace your finger along his stubble, tip it towards the solid edge of his chin and follow the skin all the way down to the warm curve of his neck. You can feel his pulse jump, slightly, at your touch, and you put the barest suggestion of pressure against him to encourage him towards you. He brushes gentle against your lips and you arch up into him. He tastes like bread and butter and Nadia's favourite pomegranate tea and you link your hands behind his neck to bring him closer into you, almost desperate to taste him further.

He makes a low noise in his throat and pulls away, jostling your head in his lap. You follow instinctively for a beat before releasing him. Your eyes are still half-lidded, heavy with a pleasant daze.

"Sorry," you say, trying to sound more apologetic than you can find it in yourself to be. "It must be uncomfortable to bend over like that."

He shrugs, still slightly hunched so he can meet your gaze. "It wasn't all terrible."

You laugh and tug on one of his hands, bringing it to your mouth so you can brush a kiss against his knuckles.

There's a quiet rustling from the corner of the garden, and you prop yourself up, nearly knocking into Muriel's chin. Your flower crown falls haphazardly into your eyes. Muriel lifts his free hand to right it on your head, the other still clasped firmly in yours.

The two of you watch the bushes, tense.

Relief blows through you. "Asra! Hello!"

You're delighted and surprised and only mildly apprehensive to see the downy-haired magician step into the clearing; you'd thought he was still off on his current journey. His eyes are bright and smile knowing. He can move almost silently through the trees: the disturbance was a deliberate courtesy. "Hello. Taking a break? And with Muriel, too?"

The bones of your hand are suddenly squeezed painfully together, and you wince and glace at Muriel. He doesn't notice, focused squarely on Asra, who hasn't made any move to come closer. Faust pokes her head out of his shirt, eyes shining.

You can feel something from Muriel; coiled so tightly you wouldn't notice it at all if you weren't touching him, your skin coaxing answers from his with the unconscious twining of your magics. Everything in him is straining forwards towards his friend, even as it shies away.

He finally notices your gaze on him and starts, reining in his emotions and jerking his hand from your grip. You try not to let the hurt show too obvious on your face.

"Asra!" you say, turning to him with a sunny smile. "Come sit with us! Tell us about what you've been doing!" You can feel Muriel tense beside you, silent. Your breath catches tight in your chest.

"Trying to chase up some more information. The friend I went to see didn't have quite the . . . lead I was hoping for. But Muriel's actually been a great help out in the forest." Asra wanders over, impossibly quiet in the grass. "What are the two of you doing?"

"Enjoying the beautiful gardens and Nadia's boundless hospitality," you say, gesturing to the picnic basket tucked behind the tall root of a tree. He looks suitably enticed, bending over to rummage through its contents. You turn to your silent companion, something strange twisting low behind your words. "Muriel, you didn't tell me you and Asra were working together!"

He shrugs, his thick arm brushing your shoulder, and you lean back into him, just slightly. He stiffens but doesn't move away, and you will take what little victories you can. You quash the uneasiness in your chest. It's not as though he's been keeping something from you - you'd been busy, here at the palace. It's the first time in days that you've seen him.

Everything is fine.

Asra straightens, a vine of grapes the colour of Nadia's hair tucked into one arm.

You beam. "Excellent choice."

"Oh? Are we sharing?" he asks, teasing. You kick lightly at his leg and he steps deftly over you, dropping to a cross-legged position. He carefully plucks the first fruit off the stem, rolling it gently between two fingers. You follow the motion with your eyes.

He smiles, mischievous, and pops it in his mouth.

You laugh. "Faust, tell Asra to share!"

 _Feed friend!_  

The soft voice of his familiar makes you smile, and you reach over and pluck the whole cluster of fruits out of his hands. When you lean back up, Muriel is no longer quite so close.

You pull a large, juicy grape off, holding it carefully in one hand. You make as if to toss it, and Faust follows the motion with her head, eager.

 _Tricked!_  She sounds indignant, despite the fact that you all know she can't actually eat them.

"Sorry," you say easily, extending your arm out towards her. She slithers up, scales warm on your skin. Then you lean forwards and press the fruit against Asra's lips. He opens with an obliging laugh, pulling it in with his tongue. You turn with a smile to Muriel, and just catch his eyes darting guiltily away, telltale flush on his skin.

You pluck another, holding it between your fingers: a perfect, shining jewel. Muriel continues to stare resolutely out into the distance, shoulders hunched around his ears. You turn with the grape still in hand, trying to catch his eye. He ignores you, the warm bloom of red spreading beyond the sharp boundary of his jaw.

"Muriel." You reach up and press the grape to his mouth, and he opens in surprise. You take your opportunity, popping the whole thing in, one finger trailing, lingering for just a moment on his lower lip. He nearly chokes, swallowing it whole.

"Muriel! Are you alright?" Asra is all action, sitting up swiftly and grabbing one of the three thermoses of tea from the basket. He unscrews the cap in one smooth motion, tipping the fragrant contents to his friend's face. He takes desperate gulps, gasping.

"I'm so sorry!" you say, feeling the familiar coil of guilt laying comfortable as a friend alongside Faust. "I didn't mean to hurt you!"

He waves the two of you away, bright orange drops dripping down his chin. You reach up and wipe carefully with the end of your sleeve. He swats your hand away.

"Better?" Asra asks, sitting back on his haunches. Muriel nods, face flushed and furiously avoiding anyone's gaze. You twist your hands in your lap, grapes discarded on the ground beside you. You feel utterly miserable.

"I'm sorry," you say again. You let out a shaky breath. Muriel still won't face you, and the whole of your chest hollow outs. You've ruined the afternoon. And it had looked almost hopeful that the three of you might enjoy each other's company today. True, Muriel was hardly talking, but. Ignoring that strange undercurrent in the air is getting easier.

Your peace is so fragile.

Ridiculously, you feel something hot and wet starting in your eyes.

"Muriel," Asra says softly, and he finally turns to look at you. You drop your gaze to the grass, trying to school your face. It's so hard to spend time together as it is, you don't want to make things more difficult.

"It's fine." Muriel's voice is gruff, and when you finally look up his expression is a mixture of alarmed and concerned.

"It's not!" You don't mean to shout, hands twisting the fabric in your lap so hard you're setting wrinkles. You rub at your eyes, horrified to find that you've actually started _crying_. "I've ruined everything!"

"I'm okay!" he says, sounding genuinely panicked now. He puts up a placating hand, palm out. He moves, almost, to cover yours, but can't quite make the journey. "It was an accident. Everything's fine."

"Don't!" You can feel something in you coming untethered, but no matter how hard you pull you can't seem to reel it back in. You swipe angrily at your face, the orange tea on your sleeve stinging your eyes and making you cry harder. "Don't forgive me just because I'm crying! If you're mad, be mad at me! Be anything you want! Just _tell_  me." Your voice drops, whisper-quiet. Betrayed. "You promised."

Asra winds an arm around your shoulders, brow furrowed. The picture of indulgent concern and . . . pity? "No one is mad at you."

You feel a surge of irritation, unsure if it's justified but unable to stamp it out. The tears coursing down your face are ones of frustration, now. "But you're _something_! We're all just dancing around whatever this is and clearly it's my fault! You have no problems together as long as I'm not around!"

Asra rubs a soothing hand down your shoulder, but Muriel winces and looks down. Indignation simmers under your skin and you jerk his hand away. "Just tell me what I did!"

Faust is squeezing your neck, trying to coil around and calm you down. Most nights it works, but today. . . You aren't ready to let go of this anger because it is the only thing keeping your sadness and your desperation from leaking through.

Asra and Muriel share a guilty _look_  but say nothing. Asra's eyes are remorseful and sad and just a little bit heartbroken. Muriel looks ashamed and deeply uncomfortable.

Neither of them say a word.

You don't know what the **fuck**  that's supposed to mean.

"Fine," you say, voice clipped. You wipe your face so vigorously the skin stings. It takes you a minute to find your footing. "I should be getting back to the library anyway."

"Wait-" Asra reaches for you, his fingers just brushing the edge of your hem-

_Found you._

Your heads whip around, posture suddenly alert. You trip slightly on the ground, still dizzy from what you're already starting to think of as a borderline tantrum, and Muriel reaches up reflexively and steadies your elbow.

Red eyes are glowing between the shadows of a tall hedge.

You press a hand up to your forehead, suddenly exhausted. This is an additional headache that you don't have room for, right now. "Go away, Lucio."

The figure steps out into the light, shafts of sunlight shining straight through him to the grass below. Asra and Muriel immediately move to shield you from the furry white shade. Lucio's mouth curls over his teeth. _How sweet. Your little pets are here to protect you. Well, I have guard dogs of my own._

He snaps his fingers and Mercedes and Melchior materialize from the trees, called by whatever bond they share with the half-formed shadow of their master. They bare their teeth at the three of you, lips curled back so far it looks like their faces are about to split in two.

You roll your eyes at him. "This isn't really the time - learn to read the room. Can you come back later?"

He puffs up, looking slightly shocked and more than a little bit insulted. _You think I care when it's convenient for you?_ But his tone is more petulant than threatening.

You reach into Nadia's basket, and the dogs start at the movement but don't release their rigid positions. A bright red pomegranate emerges in your hand, and you roll it easily towards them. They manage another few moments of perfect stillness before they fall on it, ravenous.

 _Hey!_  

The strange curl of his lips _must_ be a pout, even though you've never had the chance to see that expression on a goat before.

 _Mercedes! Melchior!_ He tries to call them to attention, but the momentary distraction lets the pomegranate slip out from under their paws. Mercedes takes the chance to pluck it up with her mouth, bounding off with her prize. Melchior lets out a low whine and follows. He frowns sullenly after them. _Hey! Daddy's calling you!_  

You stifle a laugh behind your hands, knowing it would probably be inappropriate in the face of this situation. Still, though. He calls himself _daddy_.

You can feel them tensing beside you, Muriel an imposing figure, Asra looking deceptively relaxed, smirk playing on his face. _"Daddy?_ So, that would make _them_ your kids? I guess I can say I see the resemblance, especially now. They have your hair."

You can feel the magic rising to the surface of his skin. Usually his magic is calm; soothing. Charged and refreshing, like the moments before the rain. Now, it tastes like too much electricity in the air.

Lucio turns back to you, lip pulled back from his too sharp teeth. _Asra. You always were impossible._ He pauses, takes a menacing step in your direction. Not a one of you moves back. _Don't worry, though. This is only temporary_.

You know you should ask him what he means. Get some clarification on the finer details of what, exactly, he's hoping to accomplish. All of you are desperate for information, for any lead, and yet.

You can't bring yourself to ask.

The cost of it is engaging with him, and it feels inordinately high. Asra steps a little closer to you, and you draw resolve in with his residual magic. "So you think you can make yourself look better?"

He barks a sharp laugh. _Of course. I'm Lucio, the Count of Vesuvia. Nothing is impossible for **me.** I'll be my handsome self again in no time._ 

"Sorry, there mus be some confusion. I said make yourself look 'better', not worse."

He actually gasps at that, the too long-shape of his mouth pulling into a wide oval. It would be hilarious if you were looking at anything else.

Asra snorts. "Please. He's got less magic than that pomegranate you threw."

"That's true," you say, making a show of openly dismissing the goat-ghost. "He'd never be able to fix" (and here you gesture in his general direction), " _that_. He'd have to _know_  someone. Other than us, I mean."

Lucio's snarl only grows more pointed and unpleasant. It's verging on an alarming looking smile, and you fight the shiver that threatens to emerge. You'd never let him have the satisfaction. _Oh, trust me, I have . . . **connections**._ 

You and Asra share an exaggerated, dubious look.

"Who could you know?" The words are unexpected, from everyone including the speaker. You turn to look at Muriel, who seems uncomfortable but resigned to have all the attention focused on him.

Lucio's face devolves into a sneer. _I've had access to sources of untold power since before you were born. I didn't have to have magic to be familiar with it._  

Asra laughs. Everyone's eyes snap back to the magician, bewildered, and Lucio not a little bit angry. Asra calms himself with a sober cough, panicked amusement clear in the set of his lips. "You made another deal."

 _It sounds almost like you didn't think I would._ Lucio advances again, this time coming directly within arm's length of you without sparing you a glance. His eyes are fixed, narrowly, on your ~~master's~~  friend's. _Have a little more **faith** , magician._ 

"It's not that I don't think you aren't stupid or desperate enough to try again," Asra says, shrugging flippantly. "But I never thought the Devil would extend you another line of credit. Especially given how the . . . last one went."

Lucio narrows his eyes and extends his clawed hand towards you, nails perilously close to your heart. You don't flinch, don't give up a single molecule of space, but you can't stop the shaking in your hands. You make tight fists, tuck them in against your sides. You won't let him have _anything_  from you.

Especially not your fear.

He drags one talon lazily down the front of your shirt, and you can almost feel the change in the air, like the pressure climbing, as he makes physical contact. The fabric tears easily, loudly, in the tense silence. Asra straightens immediately, posture going from relaxed to aggressive in an instant. He starts forwards and you shake your head at him.

 _That's right, darling, control your **pet**_.

It takes an embarrassing amount of effort to school your growl into words. "Asra isn't my _pet_."

 _Oh?_ Lucio cocks his head at you, grin pulling at his lips, slow and cruel. _Does he know that?_

"He doesn't want to be my pet." Your words are remarkably calm despite the finger still pressed too close towards your chest. You can see Asra in the corner of your eye, still glowering.

 _Doesn't he? Look at him; even now he's desperate to come to your rescue. He wants your love so badly I can almost **taste** it._ 

"He doesn't have to be my pet for that. I already love him." You roll your eyes at him, suddenly close to pity. " I know the concept is foreign to you, but I don't have to own someone to love them."

 _Listen you-_  

"Oh no," you interrupt, as though he isn't so close he would be breathing goat-breath on you if he could, "that's not why you have so many pets, is it? So you'll have something that _has_  to love you?" You mean to sound condescending, but what comes out next is entirely sincere. "So you do realize . . . How sad."

 _How **d** **are** you!_ 

He presses suddenly into your face, and you feel the stinging impression of his claw against your skin before he is forcibly jerked away. You suck in a tight gasp of air, whirling to see Muriel on the ground, large hands locked around Lucio's furry biceps. You rub at the skin, but it hasn't broken.

 _Hello Scourge. Oh, it's been a while since I last visited. Nice to see you haven't lost your touch._  

You barrel over, magic coming so hot and fast to your fingertips you can almost feel your hands scalding. "Don't you dare talk to him! Don't even **look** at him!"

Asra comes in from the other side, face as dark as your mood. "Leave him alone!"

 _He threw himself into **me** , if you'll recall_, he says, archly for someone lying prone on the ground. You lift your hand, ready to throw some devastating, mindless spell into his furry hide when white blurs out of the surrounding greenery, barreling into your side and knocking you breathless. You look up to see Asra ducking, just as the other dog sails right overhead.

Lucio laughs. _You didn't think you could get them to abandon me, did you?_  

You roll to your feet, trying to push air back into your lungs.

 _Now. Doesn't that seem more fair?_ Lucio is grinning fully now, wildly. He flexes, pushing Muriel away from him and taking the opportunity to sweep out his legs. _You used to go right for the kill, no hesitation. Did you finally learn to enjoy the **sport** of it?_ 

Red crowds your vision, violent and bloody. Heat follows, fast, and you think wildly of the plague victims and the tales of a million red eyes, staring dead into the night. If Lucio really is bringing the plague back you wouldn't be surprised if you were the first victim. Death through sheer, uncontrollable **rage**.

"Shut the _hell_ up you half-man magic-whoring pissant!" you yell, dodging a neat jump from one of the dogs. Spittle from their growling mouth lands on your shoulder, red-flecked with pomegranate juice. "At the very least we have the blessing that you can't contaminate the same air he breathes, you wormy little self-fellating -" You yelp and jump away as Mercedes pivots and sprints back towards you, narrowly missing your arm. "Coward! You know I don't want to hurt your dogs you insufferable ass!"

 _Good._ His eyes are too bright, even in the afternoon light. _That means they have the advantage._  

He drops, springing from a low crouch and descending on Muriel, who'd already pushed himself back up. Muriel lifts his hands to meet sharp, clawed fingers, and you throw out an arm, ready to push Lucio away with a blast of reckless energy. Something sharp shoots pain through your arm and you drop it with a yell.

Mercedes dangles, growl moving seamless from her throat. You refocus through the pain, pulling the magic back up through your extremities and through your arm, let it pulse and overflow, push up through your skin. There's a startled yelp and the dog drops, mouth pulled back in a grimace. You flinch at the smell - like burning hair. She winces, tongue lolling past her lips, a little burned but not too badly.

She stands off against you, hackles raised, but she can't quite bring herself to close her mouth. You back away slowly, trying to see what's become of your boys. Muriel is wrestling with Lucio, briefly pinned against the thick trunk of a tree but twisting almost instantly out of it. Asra is . . . you can't see the magician anywhere, or his opponent. Maybe he -

A ball of sleek white fur bounds towards you, lips pulled back. You barely avoid the muzzle that snaps by your shin, ripping at your pants and staining them a familiar red. Your heart beats sudden and quick in your chest, the echoes of a phantom pain shooting through you. Lucio looks over at the commotion, crowing, when his eyes light on your leg. Something passes quickly in his face, but you can't read the nuance of his furry expressions.

He's suddenly blocked from view as a wall of tattered fabric passes directly in front of you. "Don't." Muriel plants his feet firmly, voice low and resolved. He'd moved so quickly - you hadn't even seen him rip himself away from Lucio's too-long talons.

You can almost hear the gleam in the ex-Count's red eyes.

 _Oh yesssss. That's right - I'd forgotten about our lovely little . . . **game**. You should have seen it . . . Asra._ You can feel the sudden tension of the magician by a spike in his magic, emanating from somewhere behind the transparent goat-man. A little extra energy, bleeding out, uncontrolled. You try to reach out with your aura, unable to reassure him as you eye Melchior and Mercedes warily. _I must admit, I was disappointed. I thought your apprentice would make for much more interesting sport. But I have to say. . . I've never seen anyone bleed so pretty._  

It reaches you first; the quickly darkening coils of his magic. You try to connect, to calm him down, but the force of his emotion is so strong it threatens to drag you down with him. You withdraw, letting the cold, roiling fury brush by you. Lucio can sense it - he must - there is no way the thickening miasma could ever be subtle - but he doesn't turn. Instead his eyes take on a startling brightness that sets your mind racing, your breath stopped in your throat.

You reach out. You don't know what you'll do but that look in his eyes; you could never let anything happen to Asra, you would _never_ let Lucio do what he - Muriel turns so suddenly the breath is knocked out of you when you crash against him. He's thrown the both of you down, covering you with his considerable size. Something bright and hot flashes by overhead, and you can smell burning ozone.

 _That was close-_ But he sounds more amused than concerned. _For some of us more than others._  

Lucio has finally turned, nearly six metres from where he'd started. There's a significant tunnel carved through the trees, burned away with crisp edges and a heavy hand. You can't see Asra, or the dogs.

You take advantage of the momentary distraction and reach one hand up to Muriel's face, trace the flecks of warm blood bright against his stubble. He startles at your touch but doesn't wince, even when the pads of your fingers find newly-torn skin. "Are you okay?"

"What about you!?" You're whispering, but the incredulity shines through. "He didn't catch you, did he?"

He shakes his head, but you push yourself up anyway, rub your hands up and down his back, along his sides. Even frisk austerely down his butt and across the back of his legs and ignore his sudden, showy swallow. You drop back onto the ground with a sigh of relief when everything seems to be in order. "Good."

 _Careless, magician. You're lucky the Scourge still has a little of that old fight I helped cultivate_.

You still can't see him, even as Muriel helps you off the ground. The forest is preternaturally dark, but a soft voice comes floating out from the trees. "It wasn't luck."

You glance over at Muriel, trying to read his face. He must sense the concern in your gaze because he nods, solemn. "He wouldn't have hit me." His gaze is serene; he is absolutely certain.

You feel, inexplicably, suddenly . . . Something tightens in your chest, though you can't say what, for sure. They're such good friends - trust so deep and implicit that Asra can throw debilitating magic around without ever once worrying for Muriel's safety. The know each other. Intimately. Intuitively. Not for the first time, you feel sidelined - a footnote in their storied history.

You don't know what to do with the feeling, so. You turn to the furry interloper, calling to him from across the clearing. "Are you going to tell us what you want, now, Lucio?"

He shifts to look at you, eyes narrow. _Isn't it obvious?_  

When he sees the blank look on your face, he nearly crows. _And here I thought you were supposed to be such a promising student._  

He keeps his eyes on you as he backs up, disappearing into the darkness of the trees, heading in Asra's general direction. Muriel follows immediately, silent and tense. He doesn't look back to see if you do the same.

You're exhausted but furious. You flex your fingers, fisting and un-fisting your hands as you try to school your breathing. You just need a moment - rush in too hot and at best the only thing you'll burn is yourself. A deep breath, square your shoulders, and you step forwards, pace measured as you track the large receding block of his back.

He's fast and nimble for his size. You nearly lose Muriel twice in the fading light, darting quick and sure between the trees. It's not a surprise, not exactly - he's lived so much of his life out in the woods, solitary and sure. It's just the first time he's ever moved with such urgency.

You've never had to work so hard to keep up.

You stumble against him, bouncing neatly off his back, your strides so exaggerated you'd been nearly mid-jump when he'd stopped abruptly in front of you. There are low voices - murmurs, deceptively conversational - and you strain to make out any words.

" . . . didn't steal . . ."

_. . . MINE . . ._

" . . . made your choice . . ."

_. . . little thief . . ._

Muriel creeps forwards, steps utterly silent, and you do your best to follow his example. Light breaks through between the trunks and you finally glimpse another clearing - much smaller than the last. Lucio hasn't put a single finger on Asra, so far as you can tell (you'll do a much more thorough check, later), but he's backed up against a tree, trapped.

Muriel steps to the right and you instinctively flank the other side, eyes on the furry back of Lucio's head. He doesn't turn towards you, doesn't stop his hissed tirade. Asra's hands are up, shielding him, but you can see the disgust on his face, and the fatigue starting to set in just underneath. If he knows you're here he doesn't give it away, gaze locked solidly on his opponent.

 _Maybe I'll just take it back . . ._  Lucio says, a deceptive calm taking over. He actually lifts one clawed hand, taps his chin pensively.

"Oh? And what makes you think you can?" But Asra's eyes are narrowed, and you see the briefest flicker of panic dancing at the edges. You don't know if Lucio sees it too, or it's his own boundless hubris, but you can hear the smile in his voice. _Why don't we find out?_  

And suddenly he spins on his heel, and you're already so close, you and Muriel edging towards him, trying to block him in. He's only an arm's length away and he's _fast_ , hand already at your throat before you even have the presence of mind to scream. He drags you to his face, red eyes nearly glowing.

 _Get. Out._  

His expression crumples and he stumbles forwards. Over his shoulder you can see Asra glowering: utterly silent and rigid with resolve. The look in his eyes is chilling.

He is ready to kill this bastard.

For _you_.

The realization would take your breath away if you still had any. Lucio's grip is relentless, and your vision starts to sway. You need to breathe. Now.

He crumples, suddenly, hand passing straight through you. It's a strange sensation - both hot and cold at once, with a texture like gelatin moving through, dissecting you. You shiver, dropping to your knees and dry-heaving violently. The sharp sting of pain fades so instantly you could believe, for just a second, that you'd imagined it.

There are the sounds of a struggle, and when you get your bearings again Muriel is straddling Lucio, one knee pressed solidly into his chest. The goat only grins up at him, alarmingly unfazed, then flicks his eyes in your direction. His smile turns feral. _Well? Are you ready to go?_  

"Nadia invited me," you say haughtily, even as you struggle to stand. You brush dirt and leaves off your clothes as you go, barely gracing him with a glance. "And it's _her_ palace now."

 _Oh, it's as much mine as it ever was,_ he sneers, _but that wasn't what I was talking about._  

Your brow furrows. "What? You want me to leave _Vesuvia_? Are you that afraid of me?" You shake your head. "I have to say, I'm actually very flattered."

 _AFRAID? Ha, what are you- OH_. Shock and delight mingle on his face. _You don't **know**_.

He turns to look over Muriel's other shoulder at the magician. Asra meets his gaze, his face grim. _Y_ _ou haven't told your precious apprentice, yet?_ His teeth emerge over his lips, short and sharp. _Well, isn't that **interesting**_.

"It's time for you to disappear," Muriel says, cold. It's the second thing he's said to the Count since he materialized in the forest, and it holds a quiet conviction that spoken to any other person would have brokered no argument. Lucio laughs in his face.

Muriel doesn't flinch, but you can see the muscles in his arms tensing, the skin going pale with force. You lift a hand just as Lucio pulls back and knocks his skull against Muriel's forehead, horns and all. Putting his own face directly in line with your next concussive blow.

His head snaps to the side, body rolling with the force. Muriel rolls with him, one leg trapped beneath his thigh. You nearly curse, but he snaps his free leg back and knees Lucio in the chin. It would knock a regular man out, but you can see the second Lucio shifts, when the knee passes straight through his face. He follows through on the momentum anyway, using the sudden freedom to swing himself out of the trap.

Asra comes silently forwards, translucent ropes of magic sliding through the grass to hold the prone figure. Lucio's dazed sneer turns to confusion and distress when the first thick knot catches him around the ankle. And pulls, holding fast. 

The rest of the ties snap into place, pinning him down.

 _What the hell is this?_  

"I think you've outstayed your welcome."

 _These are MY grounds!_  

"Ownership passes over after death, I'm afraid. And the new tenants are evicting you."

 _You can't get rid of me that easily._  But there's an edge to his voice; a slight waver.

You crouch down beside him, dropping into a crossed leg position, utterly exhausted. "If it's any consolation, this really wasn't that easy."

 _No,_ he muses. _I guess it wasn't._  

Lucio pulls at the ties on his wrist, and they give a little, and then a little more. You scramble away as his hand snaps out at you, claws reaching.

"Sorry, I-" Asra's face is growing wan, sweat beading beneath his halo of curls. How much magic has he expended already? You snap your gaze to Lucio.

He's smiling.

Muriel catches your eye over his head and you both _move_ , diving for the ghostly goat.

Even Muriel isn't quite fast enough.

A large, furred arm snaps out towards you, grabbing you at the shoulder, claws piercing through. Wet warmth trickles down, slicking the left sleeve of your shirt to your skin. Asra, already pale in the background, grows even lighter.

Muriel makes a sound low in his throat; animal. You react instinctively to him - good arm already up, placating, soothing. Trying to telegraph _I'm okay, I'm okay, Everything's **fine**_.

Lucio watches you gesture for a moment, amused, before he lifts you in a casually curious motion. You gasp against the pain, air sharp on your tongue.

You're jolted again by a sudden, brutal impact, and the fact that Muriel couldn't catch him before is even more ludicrous, because he moves so _fast_.

You cry out, trying to force your damaged arm to cooperate, to help buoy you away from the ground but you can't make your muscles behave and, oh god, if you _land_ on it. . .

You're saved by a cushion of air - slowing your fall even as Lucio's hand is ripped away. It should be painful - it certainly _looks_ painful - but you can't feel anything. Your entire arm is numb.

You barely spare it a glance.

Asra's hands are posted on his knees, panting from the unrelenting exertion. Sweat shines, dripping from his increasingly slick bangs. You stagger upwards, keeping one eye on Muriel and Lucio still tangling on the forest floor. He has it in hand but. Even he has to get tired sometime.

"Thanks, Asra," you say softly, sliding sideways to stand beside him. "Are you okay?"

He gives you a smile, tired but genuine. "I could use a nap."

You mean to say something reassuring (that's more than likely to come out teasing instead), when there's a large _Thump!_  and a groan from your left. Both your heads snap up, just in time to see Lucio attempt a savage kick to Muriel's ribs. He rolls, but not enough.

You wobble unevenly forwards, your left arm dangling limply, already feeling the acid reflux of your magic as you struggle to call up more, more, **more**. It's like the well of your power has been stoppered, suddenly, and you struggle against the plug, pulling tooth and nail to find some way to release -

The pressure snaps it open on its own, and you nearly gasp at the force of it. "Leave, Lucio." Your voice is cold, but your spells are anything but. A barrage of something bright and hot flies from your hands and he falls back, arm up to shield his face. You can smell the barest suggestion of singed fur.

" _You!_ " The voice is suddenly too loud and you wince and clasp your hand against your ear. The furry white figure is spinning, horns pointing with clear intention towards the man stepping suddenly forwards, broad and hunched and yet still placing himself like a physical barrier between the two of you. " _You're the one who messed everything up! You trapped me here! Like **this**!_"

You and Muriel move, _fast_ , sensing the danger but misinterpreting his intentions. He spins suddenly, red eyes tearing away from you as they lock on their new target. Panic rises like bile in your throat, your body moving faster than your mind. Your hand is thrown out, muttering wildly as he tries to put up his hands, tries to decide on some defense, but Lucio is too close and too quick.

He reaches out with a long clawed hand that suddenly glints solidly in the sunlight, and before any of you have time to react it connects with a sickening rending sound.

Lucio's figure fades back into the darkness with a triumphant laugh, the sting of your magic waning as he goes. Neither of you bother to watch him disappear.

"Asra!"

You dash over towards him, air freezing in your throat. A dark red stain is spreading on the white fabric of his open shirt, alarmingly vibrant against the grass. Muriel is already behind him, carefully cradling his head.

"Everything is going to be fine," you say desperately, hand already glowing with magic. Asra lets out a soft huff, looking fondly at you and wincing with the movement.

"I know." He's entirely earnest, his trust in you a sudden weight in your arms.

You press your hand lightly against his side, but you're shaking so badly, light flickering as you try to knit his skin together. He grimaces and you immediately flinch, jumping back.

"You can do it," Muriel says softly, still hunched over Asra.

You meet his eyes, trying not to panic. "That was _me_ , before! I can heal myself, that's easy, it didn't even hurt! But this is different, this is _Asra_."

Oh god, you really should have asked Julian for more serious lessons. All his fascination with anatomy and science often devolves into hilarious monologuing about his academic days.

It would probably help if you didn't meet up so often at the pub.

Panic really is unspooling rapidly now: in your chest, along your nerves. You blurt out, "I'll never drink again!"

"Calm down." Muriels' voice is low and gravelly and remarkably calm, all things considered. You look at him and nod, taking deep, careful breaths. Your hand still shakes a little as you remember to peel his shirt aside, press  directly to his bloody flesh. 

You can feel the pull of it - a strange warm pulsing that makes you think  _alive_ \- but it's not enough. It's too slow and oh  _god_ he's bleeding so much and. 

You pull back, grab your limp hand bodily with your right and press them both to the wound, left directly against his skin. You press your magic through your own hand, trying to coax power out like a magnet to direct where you need it to go. 

There's a sudden lightness in your shoulder; the fingers of your left hand twitch, then spasm. The magic is healing your arm as it filters through you, but  _that's not where it needs to go!_ You funnel it, try to keep it focused but it's bleeding into you, you're  _wasting_ it. . . 

Muriel extracts one arm and covers your hands with his own, keeping you steady. Your breaths come more normally, and you feel something warm and sparkling travelling between the two of you.

Just a little bit of his magic, threading through you. Grounding you. You flash him a grateful smile and then bend lower, anxious to see the results of your work. The skin is faintly glowing but flawless. You run a trembling finger along his side, tracing the path of his ribs.

He snorts beneath you, ticklish. "See? You did a great job."

"I was worried!" You let out a sigh and lean towards his face, squishing his cheeks between your hands. Fat tears drop immediately down the curve of your nose, heavy and sudden with relief. They fall onto his forehead, dripping into the well of his eyelids.

"Hey!"

Then you sweep his hair out of his eyes and press a gentle kiss against his temple. Muriel immediately lowers him directly on the ground (still gentle), and you sprawl against his chest, unbalanced. "Muriel!"

You scrub at your eyes and turn to look up at him, confused, but he hardly seems to know what he's doing either. He stammers down at the two of you, his eyes hot and dark. And then turns briskly on his heel. "I need to go."

"Muriel? Muriel!" You press yourself up on your elbows, trying to scramble to your feet. But you're reluctant to leave someone whose blood is still staining the grass beneath you. You ball your hands into impotent fists at your sides. "Muriel, come back!"

You sink back onto your knees, and rub two fingers against your temples. Asra props himself up on his hands, twisting slightly, testing. Then he reaches over and sets a hand on your arm. "I'm fine, now. You should go after him."

You give him an incredulous look. "I'm not going to leave you right after I stitched your side back up! What if I didn't do it properly?"

"It feels wonderful. Better than before!" he says, with what is clearly meant to be a reassuring smile.

You frown down at him. "And if that's only temporary?"

"I have my own magic, you know," he says, looking bemused. "I can heal myself if there are any problems. But you're a remarkable magician. You should have more faith in yourself."

"Asra," you say seriously, "You're exhausted! I can't even _imagine_ how much magic you used today. You were barely standing at the end of it."

He gestures to the now flawless expanse of skin in his side as if to say _Well, that's hardly **my** fault. _

You sigh. "In any case, that's not the issue. I just want to make sure you're okay. And I don't want you to be alone right after you were sliced open."

"That's a grisly way to put it."

You make to punch him in the shoulder, but your fist lands palm-open instead. "I would do anything for you."

"I-" Shock crosses his features for a moment, rendering him temporarily speechless. You've said it to him before, but coupled with real, tangible evidence . . . His face softens immediately, and he puts his hand over yours. "Thank you. I feel the same way."

You make some attempt to fight the smirk fighting its way onto your face. "I know." Then you turn your head reluctantly back towards the direction Muriel disappeared. "I wish I knew what was going on with _him_."

Asra regards you thoughtfully, moving his hand back down to the grass. "You don't?"

"Do _you_?"

He hums, and you push against his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto his back. "If you know, enlighten me! I'm so confused all the time and he won't say anything!"

He smiles indulgently and swats your hand away. "Wait, I thought you'd talked about it! He's _jealous_."

"Jealous?" You wrinkle your brow. "Of what?"

"Of me."

"Why would he be jealous of you? He's not a bad magician at all!"

Asra rolls his eyes fondly at you. "You _do_ know that he likes you?"

"I. No." You freeze. Panic rises in you like bile, and you blanch. "I mean, he's never _said_ it, I-"

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm afraid the chances of him saying it outright aren't particularly high," Asra reassures you. "Although I _do_  keep telling him he needs to be more clear with his feelings."

"But what if I-"

"He wouldn't like someone who forced him to do things he doesn't want to," he says confidently. "And he **does** like you." He gives you a quick pat on the shoulder and you immediately miss the warmth of his hand. "I'm pretty confident you can trust me on that."

You're inclined to err on the side of unsure where Muriel is concerned, but for some reason, spoken by Asra, the words sound like the truth. "Do you think so?" He only rolls his eyes and nods at you. "Oh. Thank goodness . . . but what does that have to do with you?"

He shrugs. "You and I have always been close."

"Of course! Asra, you're -." And here you pause, gesturing with wild incomprehensibility as you search for the words. He laughs at you and you pout, reaching down and flicking a lock of hair out of his face. Casual. "You're my family."

Something twists, only briefly, in his smile, so fast you would miss it if you weren't so attuned to his subtle shifts. You try to follow it, guess at the expression, but his face has smoothed back so seamlessly it's easy to believe there was nothing there. "That doesn't mean you owe me anything."

You smile and grab his hand, splayed carelessly on his abdomen. Your fingers entwine easily, carelessly, intuitively. "Then consider it a gift."

Now  _this_ smile, you've never had any trouble reading. 

You sit/lie together in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the steady comfort of his easy breaths.

" . . . So," he starts, and you almost let yourself be fooled by his gentle air into ignoring the beginnings of his laugh, " _Half-man magic-whoring pissant_ , huh?" He squeezes your fingers, a sparkle in his eyes. "You've been drinking far too much with Julian."

You snort and push his face away, pretending not to be amused when he laughs into your palm. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

You stand, brushing grass off your legs. The forest is quiet suddenly, and brighter. Warmer. Green dances on the linen of Asra's open shirt as he sits up, watching you complacently. "I think we could use a drink."

 


End file.
